


Dark Horizons

by HASA_Archivist



Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Action, Characters - Family Dynamics, Characters - Friendship, Characters - Good use of minor character(s), Characters - Good villain(s), Characters - New interpretation, Characters - Outstanding OC(s), Characters - Strongly in character, Characters - Well-handled emotions, Fellowship of the Ring, Plot - Can't stop reading, Plot - Dangerous topic w/satisfying end, Plot - Disturbing/frightening/unsettling, Plot - Fast moving, Plot - Good pacing, Plot - I reread often, Plot - Joy, Plot - Surprising reversals, Plot - Tear-jerker, Post-War of the Ring, Writing - Clear prose, Writing - Engaging style, Writing - Every word counts, Writing - Foreshadowing, Writing - Good use of humor, Writing - Well-handled PoV(s), Writing - Well-handled dialogue, Writing - Well-handled introspection
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-19
Updated: 2002-06-25
Packaged: 2018-03-24 17:48:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 28
Words: 152,158
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3777831
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HASA_Archivist/pseuds/HASA_Archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Fellowship is reuniting, but may face a new threat that is hunting them all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Tidings in Blood

**Author's Note:**

> Note from the HASA Transition Team: This story was originally archived at [HASA](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Henneth_Ann%C3%BBn_Story_Archive), which closed in February 2015. To preserve the archive, we began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in February 2015. We posted announcements about the move, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this author, please contact The HASA Transition Team using the e-mail address on the [HASA collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/hasa/profile).

This story takes place roughly half a year after the Return of the King. Some  
small details may be different than the book, but not very much. Actually, the  
whole last chapters about the Shire and Frodo leaving, never happened in this  
story. Also, Aragorn and Arwen haven't gotten married yet. O well... writers  
prerogative. I hope to focus on all characters equally, but Legolas is my  
favorite, and I may show it!  
  
Summary: The Fellowship is reuniting for the marriage of Aragorn and Arwen,  
unaware that a new evil is hunting them all. Please R&R  
  
\--------------------------------  
  
A quiet peacefulness settled over the forest of Mirkwood, as the sun dipped  
beneath the horizon, sending out bright rays of gold, orange, and pink to light  
up the sky. The last rays of sunlight played through the leaves and branches of  
trees, to land dancing upon the forest floor. A cool breeze, smelling of life  
and freshness, swept across the land rustling and whispering through the trees.  
  
This was Legolas's favorite time of day, and he couldn't have asked for a more  
beautiful evening. He lay peacefully beneath a giant birch tree, hovering half  
way between wakefulness and sleep. So quiet and still was the elf, that a  
curious squirrel perched on a branch only two feet away and studied him, before  
turning away and continuing to hunt for nuts, totally unconcerned.  
  
Many more minutes of peaceful silence followed, and the air was dim with the  
foreshadow of night, before Legolas stretched and sighed. The squirrel dashed  
away in fright, then tuned a few yards away and commenced to scold the fair elf  
in a loud, angry voice. Sitting up, Legolas watched the furry creature, and  
then let out a soft laugh.  
  
"Peace little friend. I did not mean to startle you, and I assure you I  
will be leaving shortly. But do not begrudge me of my chance for a little peace  
and quiet, for it has been long since I have had opportunity to enjoy it."  
  
At the sound of the elf's fair voice, the squirrel stopped his scolding and  
cocked his head.  
  
Legolas stretched again, then leapt gracefully to his feet. He was loath to  
leave this calm glen, for it had indeed been long since he had rested so  
peacefully. It had been only a little more than six months since the  
destruction of Sauron and the end of the war, and Legolas had spent the first  
half of those months in Minas Tirith, helping the men of Gondor to pick up the  
pieces left by the terrible war, and also helping his friend Aragorn to settle  
into his new position as king. When he had finally left Gondor, it had not been  
to return home, but instead he had traveled the last several months with his  
friend Gimli, visiting some strange and wonderful places in Middle Earth in  
response to oaths the two had made before the war began. It had been only two  
weeks since the two friends had parted company, each to return to his separate  
home for some long awaited rest and relaxation. Legolas had only been home for  
a week, and he found that most of his time was spent telling and  
retelling the tale of the `Fellowship' and attending different meetings and  
gatherings in his honor. This evening had been the first he had managed to slip  
off and just revel in the joy of being home.  
  
"And they will be expecting me back shortly, if they have not already sent  
someone looking," Legolas said out loud as he reached down to retrieve the  
bow and quiver of arrows that had rested next to him on the ground. These  
weapons were never found far from the elf, and in fact seemed to be an  
essential part of him, almost like a second skin.  
  
Legolas bid the suspicious squirrel goodbye, then began to jog quickly and  
silently back towards the city. He wondered whom he would be expected to dine  
with tonight. He wished he could just have a quiet meal with his father and  
brothers, but he seriously doubted that would be a possibility until the elves  
of Mirkwood had gotten their fill of the prince's story, and that seemed as if  
it would not be any time soon  
  
Legolas sighed once more. He was truly glad to be home, for there was no place  
he loved more than Mirkwood and he had missed his father and all his brothers.  
But now he found that he missed his other friends. Friends who had been forced  
together through circumstances and yet had formed a bond of love and trust that  
could never be broken. Perhaps most strange was the bond between Legolas and  
Gimli, elf and dwarf. And yet the two had been practically inseparable during  
the long travels of the fellowship and afterwards, and Legolas already missed  
the steady dwarf. The only thing that comforted the elf was the knowledge that  
it would not be long until he saw all his friends again.  
  
A letter had arrived the previous day from Gondor. An invitation to the grand  
wedding of Aragorn, son of Arathorn, King of Gondor, to the beautiful Elvin  
lady Arwen, daughter of Elrond.  
  
Before leaving Minas Tirith, Aragorn had procured promises from all the remaining  
members of the fellowship that they would return to Gondor for the wedding.  
Legolas looked forward to the occasion and the chance to strengthen friendships  
under better circumstances. He planned on leaving for Gondor within the week,  
even though the wedding wasn't for another month and he would probably be the  
first to arrive. He knew that Aragorn would welcome him, and Legolas wanted to  
check up on his friend.  
  
Legolas entered the city and continued to jog up the main path toward his  
father's home. Many elves hailed him along the way, and Legolas waved, though  
he would not stop. He was anxious to be home now, anxious to get whatever  
special evening that had been planned for him over with.  
  
Legolas had just reached his father's home, and was reaching out to open the  
door, when the door swung open on it's own. Terandu, his father's steward,  
reached forward, grabbed Legolas's tunic front, and all but yanked the startled  
elf into the front hall, slamming the door behind him. Legolas hadn't even  
gained his balance yet when the shorter elf turned on him and demanded,  
"Where have you been? I've been turning the whole city inside out looking  
for you!"  
  
Legolas was about to reply that he hadn't been in the city, but Terandu didn't  
give him a chance. "Quick, you must hurry. Your father has been waiting  
hours for you. Something dreadful has happened, simply dreadful!" Yet the  
elf would say no more about what had happened and why it was so dreadful. He  
merely half dragged, half pushed Legolas down the hall towards his father's  
study.  
  
Legolas allowed himself to be dragged along until they reached the great double  
doors that led into Thranduil's study. There, he stopped. Terandu continued to  
pull at him, trying to urge him on, but Legolas firmly placed his hand on the elves's  
shoulder. "Easy friend, I am here now and will go to my father with all  
haste, but I know the way, and can walk it on my own." Terandu flushed at  
the reprimand, and let go of Legolas's tunic front. Legolas straightened the  
wrinkles and smiled kindly at the older elf. "I have been in the forest  
since earlier today, and I am a bit hungry....."  
  
Terandu bowed, "Of course lord, I will bring you something right away, for  
the others have already eaten. But please, do not wait any longer, for you will  
wish to know what has happened!"  
  
Legolas watched Terandu hurry away down the hall before turning and opening the  
great doors and entering the room.  
  
A great fire was burning in the hearth, casting away the evening chill. Several  
chairs had been placed in the room in a half circle. His father sat in the  
largest chair at the head of the room, leaning forward and looking at something  
he held on his lap. Legolas's brothers sat next to their father, also looking  
at the object held in the king's hand. There were several other elves in the  
room, some that Legolas recognized and knew, and some that he could not name.  
Upon entering, all eyes turned to him, and Legolas felt a sense of dread settle  
over him, for the faces turned toward him were grave and lined with worry.  
  
His father half rose out of his chair when Legolas entered but settled back  
down with a sigh. A look of intense relief flashed over his face and then was  
gone so suddenly that Legolas wondered if he had really seen it or not.  
  
"Legolas, I am glad you have finally arrived. We have been waiting many  
hours for you." Thranduil motioned for Legolas to sit in a seat that had  
been left empty next to his brothers. As Legolas made his way forward, he  
scanned the faces of the other elves present. Many met his eyes briefly, before  
dropping their gazes, as if afraid to give something away. By the time Legolas  
had taken his seat, all the elves seemed intent on looking at something,  
anything, besides him. All, that is, except his father and brothers. They  
stared at him openly and their faces looked calculating, thoughtful, and  
definitely worried.  
  
"What has happened, for I sense that terrible news has reached this  
council while I was away."  
  
"Terrible news indeed," Thranduil answered, never taking his eyes off  
his son. "And all the more so because it involves you, Legolas."  
  
"Involves me?" Legolas asked, startled. "How so? Please explain  
yourself, for I feel a dread here that leaves my heart cold!"  
  
Thranduil nodded towards a tall elf that Legolas recognized, but did not know  
the name, and the elf stood and faced him.  
  
"I am Calwick, in case you do not remember me, and I am afraid that it is  
I who brought news of this dread here. Two days ago, I was leading a patrol  
along the Northern borders of our forest. We had been patrolling that sector  
since before your return, my prince, and my patrol were weary, but in high  
spirits, for our replacements were on the way, and we were looking forward to  
returning here to rest. Alas, that was not to be, for as I lay in a clearing,  
resting, one of my scouts came to me in the night. He was shaken and pale, as  
one who has just left a deathbed, and he could hardly speak to me. Instead he  
led me to a clearing a few miles off. There, I was met by a sight that I will  
carry with me forever."  
  
At this point, Calwick paused, and cast his eyes down. Long seconds passed  
before he again looked up, glancing towards Thranduil, and then continuing.  
  
"I came upon the remains of a small Elvin hunting party, only ten in  
number." Again he paused, then looked up and met Legolas's gaze full on.  
"They were all dead, my lord, all of them!"  
  
Legolas's eyes widened slightly, but Calwick continued with his story.  
  
"It was very strange my lord. I have the entire clearing pictured in my  
head, and I will try to pass on to you what I saw. They were lying all about  
the clearing, each on his back, staring towards the heavens. At first I  
believed them to be only sleeping, though I thought the position very strange,  
but as I came closer I found the truth. They had many cuts and bruises upon  
their body, and their faces all showed shock and pain. Each had a black arrow,  
one such that our own archers use, only blacker, sticking from their chest, all  
in the exact same spot. It was the arrows that killed them, although they had other  
injuries, and the arrows did not pierce their hearts, but their lungs. I  
thought it strange that they had died so obviously horrible deaths, and yet lay  
so composed and organized. And yet, that was not the strangest thing. What  
caught my immediate attention and caused my great confusion was the fact that  
none of them had drawn any of their weapons. Their bows lay at  
their sides, and not an arrow was removed from their quivers. Their knives were  
still sheathed. It was as if they had been attacked, and done nothing to defend  
themselves as they were being slaughtered! I do not understand it."  
Calwick stopped and dropped his head, as a great, sad sigh escaped his lips.  
  
"Alas, neither do I." Legolas cried. "But please tell me, you  
said that this involved me, and I do not understand how."  
  
Calwick nodded. "There is more to the story, my lord. Upon exploring the  
rest of the clearing, I came upon a leather parchment. It was half buried under  
one of the fallen elves, and I pulled it free to look at it. As soon as I  
realized what it was, I dropped it and was loath to even look at it  
again."  
  
"Then what was it?" Legolas asked, curious at the complete distaste  
on the elves's face.  
  
"It was a message, written in the blood of those slain. The runes and  
lettering were unfamiliar to me, but I felt a darkness settle on my soul just  
looking at it. The message was very long, and as I said before, I did not  
recognize the language, so I could not discern what it said. That is, until I  
reached the bottom. Then I saw something that chilled my blood and sent fear  
through my heart."  
  
Thranduil stood, and raised his hand to show that Calwick should stop. "I  
think that it is at this point that my son should see for himself why it is  
that this involves him."  
  
Thranduil turned to Legolas and handed to him the item he had been holding in  
his hand. It was an old weathered parchment, and Legolas felt his stomach turn  
as he took it from his father. The parchment was covered in scratches and  
unfamiliar runes that glittered black in the dim light. He remembered what  
Calwick had said, "a message, written in the blood of the slain." He  
couldn't help the shiver that ran down his back, and as he scanned the  
unfamiliar writing, coldness settled over his entire being. These were indeed  
evil words he held, of that he was certain, although he could not understand  
their meaning. Evil words full of hate and malice. Legolas looked up to find  
that the entire council was looking at him expectantly. He looked back down at  
the parchment and began to study it more closely, despite the evil emanating  
from it. He had almost reached the bottom when he let out a yell of surprise  
"Gimli! What is Gimli's name doing on this foul letter?"  
  
Thranduil only continued to stare at his son, so Legolas returned his attention  
to the message once more. What he saw caused his breath to catch and his hands  
to shake.  
  
The last two lines of the message were written in the common tongue. The words  
were bold and clear, and somehow darker than the rest of the letter, as if the  
writer had been especially intent when writing them. Legolas read those words  
out loud. "Gimli son of Gloin, Aragorn, son of Arathorn, Gandalf the White,  
Frodo Baggins, Samwise Gamgee, Perigrin Took, Merridock Brandybuck,  
and......." The elf trailed off, then looked up at his father.  
".......and Legolas Greenleaf.


	2. Dreams

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Fellowship is reuniting, but may face a new threat that is hunting them all.

Legolas sat back in his chair and let out a sigh. Closing his eyes he let the  
noise of the council's continuing discussion wash over him. Early morning was  
beginning to peek through the window; a testament to how long the meeting had  
been going on.  
  
Everyone in the room had their own opinion as to what the parchment meant, and  
what should be done about it, and everyone wanted to be heard. Calwick and most  
of the others in the room were in favor of taking out a force of elves to hunt  
down whatever creatures had murdered their fellow elves and dared threaten  
their prince. That was one thing everyone seemed to agree upon. The message of  
blood was definitely a threat or warning aimed at the remaining members of the  
fellowship.  
  
A couple of elves were in favor of finding the meaning of the entire message  
before any action was taken.  
  
Thranduil seemed not to take sides with any of the arguments. He only kept  
repeating that they were dealing with something they knew nothing about, and  
should proceed with caution.  
  
As for Legolas, he had known from the start what he must do, and all this  
argument was just delaying the inevitable. He planned to travel to Minas Tirith  
and tell Aragorn of this new threat. Aragorn would be able to send messengers  
to the other members of the fellowship, warning them of the possible danger.  
Legolas had not mentioned his plan to the rest of the council. That discussion  
was for his father and him alone, and he only hoped he could manage to convince  
his father that this was the only course of action he could take.  
  
The council went on for some time more, and the sun shone brightly in the  
mid-morning sky, before Thranduil finally rose and called a close to the  
meeting. "There is still much to discuss, but I am weary, and feel that we  
will make more progress after we rest and eat."  
  
With these words, the council broke up, its members rising and filing out of  
the room. Legolas rose also, and as each of his brothers passed him they  
gripped his shoulder lightly, or offered words of support.  
  
Legolas was the last to leave, and was slightly surprised when his father  
joined him and began walking with him towards his quarters. Neither one of them  
said anything as they walked through the vast halls of the house. Both  
recognized the others' need for silence in order to organize their thoughts.  
When they finally reached the doors to his room, Legolas turned to his father,  
trying to think of the best way to tell him of his plans to travel to Minas  
Tirith.  
  
"Father..."Legolas began, and then faltered.  
  
Thranduil, who had been looking gravely at his son, suddenly laughed. "I  
can see you struggle for words, Legolas, but there is no need. I suppose you  
will wish to leave as soon as possible, and I have already ordered Terandu to  
prepare a pack for you. The journey is long, and I guess that many days will  
pass before you arrive at Minas Tirith."  
  
Legolas was so startled; he could only stare, speechless, at his father.  
  
"Come now Legolas, do you think you could keep your thoughts hidden from  
me? I know you better than you think, my son." Thranduil's voice held  
compassion, and he placed his hand on his son's shoulder as he spoke.  
"From the moment I set eyes on those foul words, I knew the path you would  
take."  
  
"Then you agree with my decision?" Legolas asked.  
  
"I agree that you should do what your heart tells you. I agree, but that  
does not mean that I like it." Thranduil squeezed his son's shoulder  
gently, before dropping his hand back down to his side. Then he added with a  
laugh, "Of course, whether I agreed or not would have made little  
difference to you. You would have done what you wanted anyway. Of all my sons,  
you are the most stubborn. You should have been born a dwarf, with all your  
rock-headedness!"  
  
It was Legolas' turn to laugh. "My dear friend Gimli, would be very  
delighted to hear you say that."  
  
Thranduil suddenly became serious. "I will say my farewell now, for I fear  
that Calwick will keep me busy until well after you have gone. I have agreed to  
allow him to put together a searching party to go after these evil creatures,  
whatever they are, but I fear it will do little good. Even Calwick admitted that  
his men searched the clearing and could find no trace or track to lead to the  
guilty party." Thranduil sighed heavily. "Whatever breed of creature  
that can slay ten elves without a fight, and then disappear without a trace,  
will not be easy to find, even if they still lurk within Mirkwood. Be cautious,  
for even now they could be waiting for you to venture from the protection of  
this city."  
  
"I will keep my guard up," Legolas promised quickly. He was afraid  
that his father would change his mind about letting him go so easily, or insist  
that he take a party of elf guards with him. Legolas knew that he would travel  
faster and quieter on his own.  
  
"Then it is with a heavy heart that I bid you farewell, so soon after you  
have returned home." Thranduil embraced his son warmly, and then turned  
and walked away. Legolas watched him for a moment, and then turned and entered  
his room. He hoped to get a few hours rest before beginning his journey.  
  
 _Part 2_  
  
Legolas tossed and turned on his bed, his troubled thoughts making it hard to  
find sleep. His mind kept going through the things he would need for his  
journey, as well as the fastest route he should take to Minas Tirith. But that  
was not all that kept him awake. Something had been bugging him all through the  
council meeting, and was now growing and tugging at the back of his mind,  
refusing to be ignored.  
  
All the elves present at the council seemed to think that it was a group of  
evil creatures; followers of Sauron that had not been destroyed in the war,  
that was responsible for the murder of the elf hunters and the grotesque  
message. But for some reason, Legolas did not agree. He could not help but  
think that this threat came from not many, but one creature of evil. There was  
no way that he could explain why he felt this way, and so he had mentioned  
nothing to the others, not even to his father. However, the more he thought  
about it, the more certain he became that he and his friends were dealing with  
only one evil and malevolent mind bent on their destruction. But if this were  
true, how powerful must their enemy be, to attack and kill ten armed and  
trained elves without a fight.  
  
Legolas realized that he was getting nowhere with this train of thought, and so  
put it from his mind. When he reached Minas Tirith, he would explain his  
suspicions to Aragorn, but until then, there was nothing to be gained by  
worrying about it. He turned over in his bed and relaxed his mind, and sleep  
soon followed.  
  
~ _Legolas knew immediately that he was dreaming. He was standing on the rim_  
of a bowl shaped hollow, watching a wind that he could not feel shake the  
leaves of a group of trees clustered at one end of the hollow. It was night,  
and the stars were hidden by high clouds, and yet the elf could see everything  
in acute detail, even beyond the abilities of his elf sight.  
  
As he stood watching, a group of horsemen entered the hollow and dismounted,  
preparing to set camp. In his dream, Legolas stood up taller in excitement, for  
he recognized the riders. They were an odd assortment. The leader was a tall  
man with a regal bearing, and surrounded by a guard of ten men. Legolas smiled,  
for it was Aragorn, and next to him, slipping off of a horse he had been  
sharing with one of the guards, was Gimli. Behind them both, dismounting from  
four short ponies, were the hobbits Frodo, Sam, Merry, and Pippin, all laughing  
gaily. The only ones missing from the scene were himself and Gandalf.  
  
 _Legolas tried to run down into the valley and join his friends, but his feet  
would not move, and he could only stand and watch as the company started  
setting up camp. Suddenly, darkness seemed to sweep over the hollow, and a  
coldness Legolas could not feel, settled in his bones. Down in the hollow, a  
gust of wind swept through the makeshift camp, and Aragorn straightened from  
his task and looked off toward the cluster of trees. Legolas followed his gaze,  
and shivered as he saw a form standing tall, just at the edge of the trees. He  
squinted, trying to make out the form better, but it was as if a shadow lay  
over the figure, blocking it from the elf's view. A cold fear and dread fell  
over him, and he tried to call out a warning to his friends below, but he could  
not get his voice to work. Once more he tried to move, to run to his friends,  
but it was as if his feet had a will of their own, and he could not move._  
  
 _In the hollow, Aragorn called something out towards the shadow, and then_  
suddenly stepped back, his face registering fear and shock. The other members  
of the company cried out in alarm, and reached for weapons with fumbling hands.  
  
At last, Legolas could move, and he raced down the rim of the bowl, already  
knowing he was too late. Even as he ran, calling out his warning, he saw a  
black blur shoot from the shadow and head straight toward his friend's chest.  
Even without _seeing it, Legolas knew it to be a black arrow. A black_  
arrow that would pierce Aragorn's lungs, and end that heroic life.  
"No!!!!!!" he screamed, but it was too late.~  
  
"Noooo!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!"  
  
Legolas jerked upright in his bed, his last cry echoing through the room. Yet  
even as he came fully awake, he became aware of another presence in the room  
with him!


	3. Journey to Minas Tirith

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Fellowship is reuniting, but may face a new threat that is hunting them all.

Legolas jerked upright in his bed, his last cry echoing through the room. Yet  
even as he came fully awake, he became aware of another presence in the room  
with him!  
  
With cat-like quickness, Legolas sprang from the bed, reaching out blindly into  
the darkness. His hand came into contact with cloth and flesh. Without thought,  
he grabbed hold and yanked back, moving his own body sideways at the same time.  
  
There was a cry, and then a small thump, as whoever it was crashed into  
Legolas's bed. Legolas whirled around, his entire body tensed and ready to  
attack.  
  
"My lord, my lord! It's just me, Terandu! Please my lord, I meant no  
harm!"  
  
Legolas felt all the fight drain out of him. As his eyes adjusted to the dim  
light, he could make out his father's steward, lying spread eagled across his  
bed.  
  
"What are you doing in my chambers unannounced?" Legolas stood over  
the elf, and his voice was firm. "If one of my knives had been near at  
hand, I could have killed you before I realized who you were. You should have  
knocked."  
  
"But I did knock, my lord, several times, and then I heard a shout and  
thought you were in trouble. I meant no harm."  
  
Legolas sighed. "I am sure you didn't, and if any harm was done, it was  
not by you. Are you hurt?" He reached down and helped the shaken elf to  
his feet.  
  
"No, my lord, I am unharmed and extremely grateful that you gave up  
sleeping with your knives upon your return home."  
  
Legolas smiled at the older elf, trying to hide the fact that he was still  
shaking from his dream. "Tell me, why have you come to wake me so early,  
for I feel that I have just laid down to rest."  
  
"But that is not so, my lord," Terandu responded gravely. "It  
was midmorning yesterday when you retired, and you slept all that day and  
through the night. It is now nearing sunrise once again."  
  
Legolas stared, aghast at the steward. "How could I have slept so  
long?"  
  
Terandu shrugged. "Perhaps you are catching up on all the lost sleep during  
your adventures abroad."  
  
"That is no excuse," Legolas cried. "I should have been gone  
hours ago!"  
  
Terandu nodded. "Your father seems to think the same thing. He was the one  
who sent me to wake you."  
  
"I will leave at once," Legolas said as he began pulling a fresh  
tunic over his head.  
  
"Soon, my lord, but not until you have eaten some breakfast. It may be the  
last decent meal you will have for quite some time. I packed your bags lightly,  
for your father said you would wish to travel quickly."  
  
For the first time, Legolas became aware of the sweet smell of baked bread and  
honey permeating the air. He glanced toward the table in the corner of the  
room, and saw a tray full of food sitting next to a small pack. His stomach  
rumbled loudly, reminding him of how long it had been since he had eaten.  
  
"It seems that I owe you much, Terandu," Legolas said as he went over  
to the table and broke off a piece of steaming bread.  
  
Less than an hour later, just as the sun was peeking it's giant head over the  
horizon, Legolas set off on his journey. He left the city swiftly and quietly,  
with no fanfare, for the people of Mirkwood were unaware that their prince was  
leaving once again.  
  
Legolas planned on traveling southwest until he reached the river Anduin. From  
there, he would travel almost directly south, through the fields of Rohan, and  
then over the mountains into Gondor. From there, it would be a straight trek to  
Minas Tirith. If the weather and his strength held out, Legolas hoped to reach  
his destination in little over a week.  
  
The first few days of his journey went by with no incident. Legolas passed out  
of Mirkwood and then reached the banks of the Anduin on the afternoon of his  
second day of travel. He followed the river a few miles downstream, until he  
reached a narrower section of the river where he could cross. Finding a large  
piece of driftwood, Legolas placed his pack on it to keep the contents dry, and  
then plunged into the icy river. Holding onto the edge of the wood with one  
hand, he began to swim strongly with the other towards the center of the river.  
  
Legolas was a strong swimmer, but he did not press himself, instead allowing  
the river's strong current to carry him for several miles downstream. When  
Legolas was finally able to drag himself onto the far bank, the sun was hanging  
low in the afternoon sky. He rested for a few minutes on the other side,  
regaining his strength, and eating some of the lembas he had found in his pack,  
before setting off again. And so it was, that on the evening of his third day  
of travel, Legolas came to the borders of Rohan.  
  
So far, his journey had been eventless, almost boring, and Legolas found  
himself beginning to relax. He was making good time, and expected to travel  
even faster through the plains of Rohan. He settled down for the night on a  
high hill, overlooking those very plains. From this vantage point, a person  
could see quite far, even without the aid of an elf's long sight. Legolas  
settled back against the trunk of a small tree and scanned his surroundings.  
First, he looked directly south, the direction he was planning to take. All he  
saw was rolling hills of grass all the way up to the distant mountains. A herd  
of horses grazed leisurely on top of one of these hills, but that was the only  
sign of life that Legolas could see.  
  
He glanced west, and then suddenly jerked upright, his body tensed. Jumping to  
his feet, he ran to the edge of the hill. "It can not be," he said  
out loud, although there was nobody to hear him. Peering intently forward, he  
tried to focus on the objects in the distance that had caught his attention,  
but the setting sun sent it's bright glare across the plains, and the distance  
was great, even for his eyes. He stood, like a statue for several long minutes,  
but whatever he had seen had disappeared into the shadows of the approaching  
night.  
  
Legolas finally returned to the tree, and sank down. "It can not be,"  
he repeated once more. "Merely light and shadow playing with my  
eyes." And yet he could not shake the feeling of foreboding. Settling back  
against the tree, Legolas closed his eyes, and tried to rid his mind of the  
brief sight he had seen. The sight of dark, hoary, creatures, running swiftly  
across the land.  
  
The vision of orcs on the plains of Rohan!  
  
Part 2  
  
The following morning, Legolas was still unable to get over his feelings of  
unease. He decided that he would travel southwest, hoping to come across tracks  
or some other sign as to the nature of what he had seen. The new route would  
delay his mission, and slow him quite a bit, but if orcs were indeed running  
loose on the plains of Rohan, Aragorn would want to know.  
  
After the war, most of the orc bands had been destroyed. The few that remained  
had gone into hiding, finding dark caves and tunnels to disappear into. None  
dared poke their ugly faces out of the dark holes they had climbed into. At  
least, that was what Legolas had thought up until the previous evening; now he  
was not so certain. Ever since leaving Mirkwood, he had been unable to shake  
the feeling that something evil was about, watching and waiting. Now the  
feeling only intensified, and he was determined to get to the bottom of it.  
  
Legolas made good time that day, moving swiftly over the hills, and not  
stopping, even for meals. Instead, he chewed on some dried meat and lembas as  
he walked. He felt very little weariness, and often broke into a jog for  
several miles, always keeping his eyes peeled for signs that anything unusual  
had passed before him. The only tracks he came upon were those of horse and  
wild beast, and there was no sign of orcs anywhere. Legolas began to think that  
perhaps he had been mistaken. He hoped so, but would not believe it until he  
was sure.  
  
Legolas traveled until nightfall, and then made camp, afraid to go on in case  
he missed something in the dark. He laid down to rest in the shadow of a large  
hill, and immediately fell into a light sleep. He was awakened in the middle of  
the night by an ominous rumble. The air had turned cold, and a brisk wind was  
tearing through the grassland. The smell of rain hung heavy in the air, and  
lightning lit up the sky to the south. Even as Legolas pulled a heavy cloak  
from his pack and swung it about his shoulders, the first drops of rain fell to  
the earth. Legolas shook his head at the ill fate. The storms of Rohan were  
legendary in their ferocity, and Legolas knew that any tracks would be wiped  
away before this storm blew through.  
  
True to form, the storm was still raging full force come morning, and now  
Legolas was faced with a difficult choice. Should he continue on his southwest  
course, hoping to come across some sign not completely washed away by the  
torrential rains, or should he turn south, and thus reach Minas Tirith earlier.  
Legolas was torn. He was loath to give up his search, and yet despaired of  
finding anything. At the same time, he was also eager to get to Aragorn as soon  
as possible and tell him of the events at Mirkwood.  
  
At last, Legolas turned south, and began trudging towards the mountains, the  
rain soaking through his cloak and chilling his skin. He ignored his discomfort,  
and instead focused on what he would say to Aragorn when he finally reached  
Minas Tirith.  
  
The rain lasted for two days, slowing Legolas's progress and making the days  
uncomfortable and the nights unbearable. Legolas was extremely grateful when  
the sun finally broke through the clouds and the rain lessened to a drizzle and  
then stopped completely. The mountains separating Rohan and Gondor loomed up  
before him, the mists from the rain giving them an ethereal look. He was on the  
last leg of his journey, and expected to be within the walls of Minas Tirith in  
two days, if the weather didn't give him any more surprises, and the mud  
brought from the rain did not make the pass through the mountains impassible.  
  
The pass was extremely muddy, and the footing unsure. Legolas's clothes were  
still damp, and the tall cliff faces on either side of him cast his path in  
shadow and kept the sun's warm rays from reaching him. It was dusk when Legolas  
finally came down out of the mountains into Gondor. He was tired, but not  
unbearably so, and decided to travel on into the night. The moon rose bright,  
lighting his path, as well as his spirits. The closer he drew to Minas Tirith,  
the lighter his feet seemed to fall and his weariness left him. He traveled  
several hours in the darkness, the moon rising high into the night sky, but he  
still felt no need to rest. His mind was traveling forward to his reunion with  
Aragorn. He was looking forward to seeing his friend again, despite the ill  
news he carried. He felt bad that he would be the bearer of ill tidings on the  
eve of his friends wedding, but it was unavoidable.  
  
Legolas's thoughts were on these things, as his path led him deep into the  
heart of a large copse of trees. His excitement over the nearness of his  
destination, as well as his thoughts on what he would say to Aragorn upon his  
arrival, caused the elf not to pay enough attention to the path before him. If  
he had, perhaps he could have avoided what happened next, for suddenly, as he  
rounded a bend in the path, Legolas found himself face to face with a group of  
orcs!  
  
The blame could not be put entirely on the elf, however, for these orcs had  
traveled with unnatural silence, foregoing the usual loud arguments that marked  
the path of their kind.  
  
Legolas was unsure who was more surprised. The leader of the orcs, who had  
almost walked directly into the elf, stumbled back into his companions, letting  
out a loud yell.  
  
Legolas was the first to recover from his shock, and before the orc captain  
could even regain his balance and untangle himself from his followers, he fell  
dead with one of Legolas's arrows through his heart. The rest of the orcs  
recovered quickly after that, and with a shout, they rushed the lone elf  
standing in their path. Legolas dropped several of them with his arrows before  
they even reached him, then had to drop his bow and draw his knives as the  
remainder converged upon him.  
  
The orcs had quickly gotten over their surprise, shock being replaced by hate.  
They ran at the elf, howling with malicious glee, expecting to quickly overrun  
and destroy this single hated enemy. Their howls quickly turned to those of  
anger and dismay as they discovered that this elf would not die easily.  
  
Legolas was a blur of motion, his knives sweeping through the air and dealing death  
to any orc who ventured too close. Soon a pile of dead orcs surrounded him,  
making footing dangerous, and soaking the ground with their dark blood. And  
yet, Legolas knew he was fighting a losing battle. There were simply too many  
of the dark creatures. Where one fell, another took its place, hate driving  
them on. They were quickly overrunning the elf with sheer number, and Legolas  
was tiring fast. He knew that if he did not escape soon, there would be no  
escape.  
  
Legolas ducked the swing from one orc, then spun smoothly and disemboweled the  
creature with an upward thrust of his dagger. Jumping back, he turned, just as  
another of the creatures charged him. Twisting out of the way, Legolas tripped  
over the body of a dead orc, and momentarily lost his balance. With a howl of  
victory, the orc attacked again, slashing out with a long knife. Legolas  
blocked the blow, finally regaining his balance. He pressed forward, knocking  
the orc to the ground and ending its life with one blow. Yet even as he jumped  
back, another orc attacked from behind. Legolas whirled to meet it, then felt a  
flash of pain as the creature's long knife slashed deeply into his left  
forearm, almost causing him to drop his own knife. Keeping his grip by sheer  
force of will, Legolas killed that orc as well, and then looked around him. He  
was completely surrounded by orcs, with no escape.  
  
Legolas looked up desperately, catching sight of a branch hanging perhaps six  
feet above his head. He spun, knives outstretched, and the orcs jumped back,  
giving him the momentary reprieve he so needed. Stooping, he snatched up his  
fallen bow, then sheathed his knives smoothly and jumped with all his might.  
His hands caught hold of the branch, and ignoring the pain in his left arm, he  
swung his legs, and then let go of the branch to land smoothly outside the  
circle of orcs.  
  
The creatures were surprised into momentary immobility. One moment they had an  
elf standing in the middle of them, and the next he was gone. By the time they  
realized what had happened and turned, Legolas was already racing away from  
them through the woods. With a howl, they gave chase, but Legolas was much  
faster and quickly outdistanced them. He hated running from the foul creatures,  
but his message was too important to be lost because of a moment of  
carelessness. Legolas ran until he was out of sight of his pursuers, then  
quickly climbed a tree, gritting his teeth at the pain in his arm. He hid  
himself in the dense foliage, and tried to still his heavy breathing. It made  
little difference however, for his pursuers were making so much noise in their  
search for him, that Legolas could have whistled a tune without them hearing  
him.  
  
He waited until they had passed under him, and then pulled the pack off his  
back. Rummaging through it, he brought out a clean piece of cloth, and began  
examining the cut on his arm. It was deep, and was bleeding heavily, the sticky  
wetness dripping from his fingertips onto the bole of the tree. Legolas winced  
as he pressed the clean cloth firmly against the wound. ‘ _Well, it is the  
least I deserve_,’ he told himself firmly. ‘ _Perhaps it will teach me not_  
to be so careless, especially when I carry so important a message.’  
  
He remained the rest of the night in the tree, making sure the orcs had indeed  
gone before climbing down in the morning. Minas Tirith was close, just over the  
next ridge, and Legolas expected to reach it by mid-afternoon this very day.  
And yet, to the tired and wounded elf, the city seemed impossibly far.  
Resolutely, he adjusted his pack and bow and began the last leg of his journey.


	4. A Black Arrow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Fellowship is reuniting, but may face a new threat that is hunting them all.

The sun was setting low in the afternoon sky of the following day, when Legolas  
finally reached the great gates of Minas Tirith. He was allowed to pass through  
quickly and with no questions asked, for the guards knew of him and had been  
told to keep watch for his arrival. He swiftly made his way up the stone  
streets of the city toward the castle, relieved to finally be finished with his  
journey. The few people still out on the streets stared as the elf passed by,  
and many called out a greeting.  
  
News of his arrival raced before him, and when Legolas at last reached the  
castle gates, Faramir was waiting there to greet him. "Welcome friend elf.  
The king has been awaiting your arrival for quite some time."  
  
Legolas returned the greeting, and then smiled at the Steward's words.  
"Has Aragorn become so impatient? The wedding is still a month off, and I  
have actually come sooner than I expected."  
  
"Even so, you are the last to arrive, save Mithrandir, and you know how  
the wizard is. We will not know that he is here until he appears before  
us!" As Faramir spoke, he led Legolas across the courtyard and through the  
massive doors into the castle.  
  
Legolas's head came up at the man's words, and his voice was full of  
excitement. "The others are here already? I expected to be the first to  
arrive."  
  
Faramir nodded, grinning widely. "The hobbits appeared on our doorstep  
over a week ago, and have since commenced to emptying our larders. And yet I am  
glad, for I have not seen my king in such high spirits for quite some time, and  
indeed, the merry folk seem to bring joy wherever they go."  
  
Legolas laughed despite his weariness, as he pictured the four hobbits, feet  
propped up on a stool, smoking their weed and eating everything in sight.  
"And my dear friend Gimli? When did he arrive? We only parted company  
three weeks ago, and I assumed he would wish to return to the Lonely Mountain  
for a time before traveling again."  
  
"Master Gimli arrived only three days ago. He did return home, but only  
briefly, and only to let his people know he still lived." Faramir led  
Legolas up a wide flight of stairs and then through a vast maze of hallways,  
all brightly lit and with colorful tapestry lining the walls.  
  
Legolas sighed and let the light flow over him, allowing tense muscles to  
relax. "I am glad to hear that they are here, and arrived safely, for the  
message I bring involves all of us." Legolas reached back to push his  
quiver and bow back into position on his back, his movements shifting his cloak  
about him. He had taken several more steps before he realized that Faramir had  
stopped. Turning, he saw the man staring with dismay at the blood soaked  
bandage wrapped about his arm.  
  
"You are hurt! And quite badly from the look of it, and yet I failed to  
notice until now." Faramir reached forward and touched the blood soaked  
bandage wrapped around the elf's arm.  
  
"The cut is deep, but will heal. But more important than the wound is how  
it was attained. Of this, I must speak to Aragorn immediately."  
  
At these words, Faramir looked even more distressed. "Alas, my lord is  
away, or surely he would have greeted you at the gate himself.  
  
"This is foul news indeed," Legolas cried out, weariness pressing  
down on him once more. "I had much need to talk to him of a very important  
matter. Tell me, where has the king gone, and when do you expect his  
return?"  
  
Before Faramir could respond, another voice spoke from behind them. "The  
king has gone south, to Linhir, and he is not expected to return for several  
days."  
  
Legolas and Faramir turned as Arwen joined them in the hall. Faramir bowed low,  
for he had not gotten over his awe of the beautiful elf princess. Legolas  
smiled and greeted her quietly in the language of the elves. Arwen returned the  
smile, but it quickly faded as she took in his travel stained clothes and  
bandaged arm. She reached out and gently touched the soiled bandage, much in  
the way Faramir had just done, her eyes lifting to meet Legolas's gaze. "I  
sense there is more to your presence here than a mere visit." Her voice  
was soft, yet full of question.  
  
"Indeed there is, my lady, and I have traveled long and hard to come here,  
only to find that Aragorn has left the city. My heart is very heavy, for I had  
much need to speak with him."  
  
"Aragorn wished to remain here and wait for your arrival, but two days ago  
he received rumor that orcs had been sighted outside Linhir. He could have sent  
others to investigate, but chose to go himself, taking Gimli and the hobbits  
with him.  
  
Faramir, who had been standing silent, suddenly broke in. "Aragorn and the  
others left yesterday morning, along with ten guards. They were in no hurry,  
for Aragorn believed little truth to be in the rumors, and I must agree. The  
orcs are dead or scattered. It will be quite some time before the vile creatures  
dare poke their noses out of their holes, and even longer until they dare pass  
the borders into Gondor!"  
  
"If only this were true, Faramir," Legolas replied, "but I fear  
that you are wrong. The creatures have dared to leave their holes, and have  
even dared to wander within the borders of Gondor. I was attacked by a group of  
the foul creatures less than a day's ride from this city. The battle was great,  
and I barely escaped with my life."  
  
Faramir stared at him in disbelief. "How can this be?" he asked, his  
voice barely above a whisper.  
  
Legolas shrugged, and then cast a glance towards Arwen. "I do not know the  
answer to your question, Faramir, though I guess that I may hold at least a  
piece to this puzzle, the very reason that I have traveled here."  
  
"Then I ask that you share this piece with me, if only that I may  
understand a little better!" Faramir's face was firm, and he looked as if  
he was ready to ride into battle immediately.  
  
"I am interested in hearing your story as well, Legolas," Arwen  
added, "But not here. There is a room nearby where we can sit. I will tend  
to your wound and you can eat and drink to regain your strength."  
  
Legolas nodded, and Arwen led them to a room a short way off, stopping a young  
servant girl along the way to ask for food and wine, as well as a bowl of water  
and fresh bandages to be brought to them.  
  
Legolas spent the next hour retelling his tale, starting from the moment he  
entered his father's house. Faramir and Arwen listened without interruption. As  
Legolas spoke, Arwen cleaned out the wound on his arm and re-bandaged it. When  
Legolas finally came to the end of his tale, Arwen sat back and let out a small  
sigh.  
  
Faramir shook his head, not able to fully digest all that he had just learned.  
"I hope that Aragorn returns soon, for I do not like the sound of this  
letter of blood. Perhaps this trip to Linhir is nothing but a trap!"  
  
"I have thought of this possibility myself, and that is why I have decided  
to ride out after them this very night." Legolas stood and turned to  
Faramir. "You said that Aragorn was in no hurry when he left. I will ride  
with great haste, and if luck and speed remain with me I will overtake his  
company before he reaches Linhir."  
  
"But you have just arrived, and I can see that you are weary. Let me send  
another messenger to him and you can stay and rest." Faramir had risen  
also, and now faced the elf, his voice earnest. "I would go myself, but in  
the king's absence I am the leader of this city, and duty binds me here."  
  
Legolas shook his head. "I would find little rest this night, even if I  
were to stay. Darkness has settled on me, and it will only be lifted when I am  
again reunited with my friends. I am indeed weary, but not too weary to finish  
the journey I set out on."  
  
"Then I will not try to dissuade you, for I can see that your mind is made  
up. But at least let me choose a company of men to ride with you," Faramir  
asked.  
  
"I will go swifter on my own," Legolas replied. "I intend to  
ride without stopping, however long it may take. I will need a mount, your  
swiftest and strongest, if he can be spared."  
  
Faramir nodded thoughtfully. "Our best horses left the city with the  
king's company, but I am sure that we can find you a worthy mount from the ones  
that remain."  
  
Arwen spoke up for the first time. "The men of the Mark brought a herd of  
horses here several weeks ago, a gift to Aragorn from Eomer. They are all young  
and strong, the finest Rohan has to offer."  
  
Faramir nodded. "What the lady speaks is true, yet I cannot see how they  
can be of use to you. The horses have yet to be trained to saddle or  
bridle."  
  
Legolas thought for a moment, then turned to Faramir. "Are the horses of  
the Mark kept far from here?"  
  
"No, not far at all. They are in a field right outside the city, but as I  
said, they are yet untrained."  
  
Legolas looked at Arwen, then smiled. "Take me to them."  
  
 _Part 2_  
  
Aragorn sat tall and proud on Roheryn's back, letting the cool evening breeze  
ruffle through his hair and whip his cloak out behind him. The sun was setting  
in a great orange ball before him, its last rays lighting up the land and  
turning his face a golden hue.  
  
It had been three days since he had ridden from the gates of Minas Tirith,  
heading toward the town of Linhir. Aragorn had enjoyed every second, reminded  
of his time as a simple ranger. There were moments when he felt a pang of  
yearning to return to that time. Yet that life was behind him now, and he did  
not allow himself to dwell upon it for long. He was the king of Gondor, and his  
life was no longer his own. Instead, it belonged to his people. Perhaps not the  
life he would have chosen for himself, yet fate had put him here, and he was  
not one to back away from his responsibilities.  
  
Now, as the sun sunk below the horizon, Aragorn scanned his surroundings in  
search of a good place to set camp. Ten riders surrounded him, all dressed in  
the colors of Gondor, with swords strapped to their backs. He wondered ruefully  
if they were supposed to be an honor guard or his protectors. A voice to his  
left distracted him from his thought, and he turned and smiled at Gimli.  
  
The dwarf really did look comical, perched in the saddle in front of one of the  
guards, in full armor, axe across his knees. Gimli was glaring down at the  
saddle and grumbling loudly.  
  
"Comfortable Gimli?" Aragorn asked innocently, and was rewarded by a  
sharp glare from the dwarf.  
  
"I am not sure which I hate worse," Gimli declared in a loud voice.  
"Riding in one of these dreadful saddles, or riding without the saddle, as  
that dratted elf insists upon doing."  
  
"Technically you are not riding at all, but are only being carried,"  
Aragorn pointed out. "You would be much more comfortable on your own  
mount, especially if you would take off all that armor."  
  
"I would be much more comfortable if I were on foot," the dwarf shot  
back. "I do not like, or trust, horses. It may take longer to reach your  
destination on foot, but at least you are sure to get there in one piece. I  
fear that I am beginning to split in two from all this riding."  
  
"Hardly likely with all that metal surrounding you." Aragorn held up  
his hand in surrender as it looked as if the dwarf were going to start an  
argument. "Come now, Gimli, help me look for a place to camp. It will help  
keep your mind off your backside."  
  
"My lord," one of the guards broke in. "I am from around these  
parts, and I happen to know of a very nice place, sheltered from the wind,  
where we can camp for the night. It is but a couple more miles ahead."  
  
"A couple more miles," Gimli moaned. "I do not think I shall be  
able to survive one more mile."  
  
"You have said that every night, and yet you are still with us. The wind  
is a bit cool tonight, and I would not mind sleeping in some shelter. One more  
night camping beneath the stars, and then we will reach Linhir with a real bed  
upon which to sleep. Cheer up my friend."  
  
"And what exactly do you intend to do when we reach this town? Knock on  
every door and say, `excuse me, but we are looking for orcs. Big, ugly  
creatures, with long black hair, that are supposedly lurking somewhere around  
here.' Not an innkeeper in his right mind would allow us to sleep under his  
roof, king or no!" The dwarf's voice was sarcastic, and he shifted  
uncomfortably on the horse as he spoke.  
  
Aragorn laughed. "We will just have to wait and see when we arrive.  
Knocking on doors doesn't sound like a bad idea."  
  
Gimli glared at him, then threw up his hands, almost loosing his axe in the  
process. "Tell me again why I came with you?" he demanded.  
  
"I do not know, for I offered for you to stay behind. It was you who  
insisted upon coming, remember? I have been wondering why, myself."  
  
Gimli fidgeted in his saddle, and then grumbled, "Someone had to come  
along and take care of the hobbits, in case you really did run into orcs or  
something."  
  
Aragorn looked at him in surprise. "You do not think that I could take  
care of the little people if trouble did arise?"  
  
"Not in your present condition," Gimli replied.  
  
"My present condition?" Aragorn was confused.  
  
Gimli nodded. "Yes, condition. For that is all that I can think of to name  
it. Do not think that you can hide it from me, for I know you too well."  
  
"I do not know of what you speak." Aragorn replied honestly.  
  
"Let us just say that if you were attacked by a band of orcs, you would  
most likely stop in the middle of the battle and begin to sing of a certain elf  
princess who awaits your return at Minas Tirith. Then you would be slain and  
the halflings would have no one to protect them."  
  
Aragorn looked at Gimli in amazement, and then began to laugh. His mirth came  
just as much from the look of askance upon his guards' faces, as the dwarf's  
words.  
  
"I have seen you riding along, perfectly normal," the dwarf  
continued, "Then suddenly you will be grinning like a polecat. It does not  
take an Ent to figure out what you are thinking about. If this is what love  
does to a great warrior, then you can be sure that Gimli the dwarf is never  
getting married!"  
  
"I look forward to the day when I shall see your heart fall captive to a  
beautiful dwarf maiden," Argorn laughed.  
  
"That will never happen," Gimli said quite seriously. "If  
Legolas can last over a thousand years without getting married, I think this  
dwarf can do the same!"  
  
"In any case," Aragorn said seriously, "I am sure the hobbits  
would be most grateful for your sacrifice on their behalf."  
  
Aragorn glanced behind him to where the hobbits rode on short, shaggy ponies.  
The four had fallen some way behind the company, and yet seemed totally unaware  
of it. Merry and Pippin seemed to be having a serious discussion. Pippin was  
waving his arms and Merry kept shaking his head emphatically. Next to them,  
Frodo rode, propped awkwardly in his saddle. One leg was drawn up and actually  
draped down the opposite side of the horse, giving Frodo a twisted look. He  
held a parchment and pen in his hand, and an inkbottle tottered dangerously  
upon his thigh. He was paying absolutely no attention to where his pony was  
going, instead allowing the creature to pick its own path. His head was bent  
toward his parchment, and he was scribbling furiously in the dying light. Sam  
rode beside him, and kept reaching out a hand, as if expecting to have to catch  
his master.  
  
Aragorn pulled Roheryn to a halt, the others stopping with him, and waited for  
the hobbits to catch up. As they drew closer, he could make out what they were  
saying. Merry and Pippin's argument seemed to be about the best place to grow  
the hobbit's weed, while Sam seemed to be begging Frodo to put up his  
parchment.  
  
"Now Mr. Frodo, if you`re not careful, you're going to fall off your  
pony's back and break your head open. Then Aragorn will have to leave us  
behind. Do you want that Mr. Frodo? Why don't you wait until we stop for the  
night? You can do all the writin' you want then, while I'm sleeping."  
  
"But I am almost finished Sam...Oh alright, the light is getting too dim anyway."  
Frodo reached to put his parchment and pen in his saddlebag, but his movements  
caused the ink jar to waver, then start to slide off his lap. Frodo made a wild  
grab for it, but the movement threw him off balance, and he would have toppled  
face forward off his pony if Sam hadn't reached out and held him, allowing him  
to regain his seat.  
  
Merry and Pippin had temporarily put off their discussion as they approached  
the others. Pippin rode up to Aragorn and looked at him questioningly.  
"Why the big grin?" he asked curiously.  
  
"And why the big scowl," Merry added, as he looked towards the dwarf.  
  
"I have just learned," growled Gimli, "that we must travel  
several more miles this evening until we reach a camping sight that suites the  
king." He shot a glance towards Aragorn, who was still smiling widely.  
"It will be well past midnight before we stop, if certain hobbits cannot  
manage to keep up!"  
  
"He is afraid he is going to split in two if he keeps riding for much  
longer," Aragorn put in.  
  
"Hardly likely with all that armor to hold you together," Pippin  
assured Gimli.  
  
"Precisely what I told him, Mr. Took, but I do not think he believed  
me." Aragorn's face was completely serious, hiding his mirth. "Yet he  
is right, we have quite a ways to go, and it is almost dark."  
  
"We can't help it if we fall behind." Sam had finished helping Frodo  
adjust himself in his saddle, and now he joined the conversation. "Our  
ponies have to take three steps to Roheryn's one. If we were to keep to your  
pace, we would be trotting the entire way to Linhir, and then we would have a  
real reason to complain, if you catch my meaning." At this last sentence,  
Sam shot a look at Gimli. The dwarf only snorted and did not reply, lowering  
his head to hide his smile.  
  
"I don't know, Sam," Pippin said doubtfully. "Right now I'd be  
willing to trot as far as Aragorn says, just so long as there is a good meal  
waiting at the end. I'm starved!"  
  
"Then let us hurry on," Aragorn replied. "Put your ponies in  
front of us, and perhaps Roheryn and the other horses can push them on to a bit  
faster pace."  
  
The hobbits did as Aragorn suggested, and as Frodo passed him, Aragorn called  
out to him. "You have been very quiet my friend. Is something bothering  
you?"  
  
Frodo jumped at Aragorn's voice, then smiled self-consciously. "No,  
nothing is bothering me. I am just thinking about my book. Bilbo has been  
pressuring me to finish it quickly, and I am afraid that I have had little else  
on my mind. It is hard enough to relive the memories from the safety and calm of  
the Shire, and here, so close to where it all happened...." Frodo trailed  
off, then let out a big sigh.  
  
Watching him, Aragorn felt a pang of sadness for his friend. He could see a  
weariness in Frodo that no amount of sleep could do away with - a weariness of  
the spirit. "If I could give you a suggestion?" Aragorn asked  
quietly.  
  
"Of course," Frodo replied, surprised.  
  
"Put away your book, at least while you are here. Relax and enjoy yourself  
during this visit, for you deserve it. Allow yourself to see the light and new  
life of this land, instead of dwelling on the darkness that once covered  
it."  
  
"You are right," Frodo sighed. "And I shall do as you say."  
He looked around him, taking a deep breath of the cool night air. "It is  
easy for me to forget my troubles when I am surrounded by such great  
friends."  
  
"Indeed!" cried Aragorn. "The joys of friendship make all  
burdens light, even those of a king!"  
  
 _Part 3_  
  
Legolas rode like the wind, the land a mere blur that sped past him. He had  
ridden hard all night and all day, and night approached once again. The pace he  
had set would have killed an ordinary horse. But the blood red bay beneath him  
was no ordinary horse, as Legolas had known from the moment he saw him,  
standing separate from the other horses of the Mark.  
  
Even in the dimness of evening, his coat had seemed to glow, as if on fire.  
Long, muscled legs ran up to a perfectly shaped body, and his eyes had glowed  
with intelligence and youth. Legolas had entered the enclosure and called out  
to him, and without hesitation, the horse had gracefully trotted up to him.  
Legolas had named him Shandarell,* meaning wildfire in the common tongue. After  
only a few minutes of talking softly to him, Legolas had sprung onto his bare  
back, the horse handler's faces showing their awe.  
  
Now Legolas was glad of his choice, for Shandarell ran without tiring, his pace  
never slackening. His nose thrust out into the wind, perhaps remembering  
running free through the vast fields of Rohan.  
  
Night was fast approaching, yet Legolas finally felt as if he was nearing his  
target. He had come across a camp sight only a couple miles back. He believed  
that it was quite recent, perhaps the very place his companions had stopped  
earlier that day for lunch. A few more hours and he would catch up to them.  
  
As if sensing his rider's urgency, Shandarell put on a fresh burst of speed,  
his shrill cry tearing through the stillness of the evening. Legolas laughed  
and threw back his head, closing his eyes and letting the fresh, clean air  
sweep over him and whip his long golden hair out behind him.  
  
Another hour passed before Legolas finally slowed to a trot, then to a walk,  
allowing Shandarell a brief rest. It was dark now, high clouds obscuring any  
light offered by the sky. Using his keen elf's eyes, he scanned the ground  
around him for any sign that his friends had passed before him. He had gone for  
several minutes, when he spotted a pile of fresh horse manure lying in the path  
before him. He was close, very close.  
  
Squeezing his legs lightly against Shandarell's side, Legolas asked for speed  
once more, and the great horse responded immediately.  
  
He had gone for several minutes, when the ground began sloping steeply upward.  
Once again, he brought Shandarell to a walk in order to spare the horses  
strength. When he reached the peak of the climb, Legolas realized that he was  
actually on the round rim of a series of hills that looked down into a bowl  
shaped valley - a very familiar valley.  
  
Legolas felt his heart race as he looked down into the valley, into a scene straight  
from his nightmare!  
  
 _Part 4_  
  
It was already several hours into the night, when Aragorn and the others  
reached the intended camping sight. They found themselves in a narrow valley,  
surrounded by high hills, which effectively blocked the wind. A clump of trees  
clustered at one end of the valley - a large, dark shadow in the night. Aragorn  
was pleased with the camping sight, and also relieved to have finally arrived.  
He was tired and hungry, and had been forced to listen to the hobbits and  
Gimli's complaining for the last hour.  
  
The company rode to the center of the valley, and then dismounted. The hobbits  
immediately set to building a fire and cooking up something for supper. His  
guards began tending the horses, one of them coming and taking Roheryn's reins  
from him. Aragorn could have tended his own horse, and actually preferred to,  
but he allowed Roheryn to be led away, and then made his way over to Gimli.  
  
The dwarf looked truly miserable. He was walking gingerly about, a look of pain  
on his rough face. Aragorn felt a momentary flash of guilt.  
  
"Why not take the armor off now. You would feel much better."  
  
Gimli nodded, his discomfort finally winning out. He began to strip out of his  
armor, Aragorn lending him a hand.  
  
A sudden gust of wind swept over the hills, and Aragorn felt a shiver run down  
his spine. Something caused him to look up, and he quickly straightened as he  
caught sight of a figure standing just on the edge of the firelight,  
silhouetted against the trees. The figure was swathed in a black cloak, the  
hood pulled up, and Aragorn unexplainably felt another shiver run down his  
spine.  
  
Gimli, noticing his friend's sudden alertness, followed Aragorn's gaze. He too  
immediately straightened, and his hand went to his axe. Aragorn touched his  
shoulder. He did not know who this stranger was, but he didn't want Gimli to  
attack a helpless traveler who had stumbled upon their fire.  
  
"Welcome, stranger," he called out. "Please, come join us by our  
fire, for it is a cold evening."  
  
The others jerked upright at Aragorn's call, looking in the direction he was  
staring. The guards shifted uneasily, hands on sword hilts, and the hobbits  
froze in whatever task they had been doing. All eyes were upon the stranger.  
  
Aragorn tensed, as the cloaked figure moved, but all it did was reach up and  
throw back the hood, revealing his face.  
  
Aragorn gasped, for standing before him was an elf!  
  
He looked a lot in appearance like their own friend Legolas. Long blond hair  
flowed down around a bronze face. Yet this elf was taller than Legolas, his  
face more rough. He held a bow before him, which had before been hidden beneath  
his cloak. A quiver of arrows hung from his back. There was something about  
this elf that sent a feeling of intense cold throughout Aragorn's body. Something  
was wrong, though he could not say what it was. The shadows seemed to cling to  
this elf, almost giving the appearance of a second cloak draped about his  
entire frame.  
  
Composing his feelings, Aragorn called out his greetings once again, this time  
in the language of the elves.  
  
The elf turned towards him, staring directly at him, and Aragorn felt a wave of  
evil so strong that he stumbled back, a cry of alarm frozen in his throat.  
  
The elf laughed, but the sound was all wrong, not fair and beautiful like the  
laughter of other elves. This laugh was low and dry, like dead leaves rubbing  
together.  
  
A stillness seemed to fill the air. All stood frozen, barely daring to breath  
as they waited for what would happen next.  
  
Then the others cried out in fear, as the elf reached back and lifted a black  
arrow from his quiver. Aragorn was unable to move or call out, even as the elf  
lifted his bow, aiming the arrow directly at his chest.  
  
Time stood still, the only sound was of his heart, thundering in his ears, and  
Aragorn knew that he was about to die.


	5. Fight in the Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Fellowship is reuniting, but may face a new threat that is hunting them all.

Aragorn was entrapped in a wall of ice. His hand still gripped his sword hilt,  
but it was as if iron bonds held him, and he could not move, or tear his eyes  
away from the black elf that stood before him. He was aware of the other  
members of the company around him, Gimli right at his side, yet they seemed to  
be frozen as well. Watching in horror, yet unable to help.  
  
` _Not this way! Not like this_!' A voice screamed in Aragorn's head. ` _Fight_  
it. FIGHT!'  
  
Yet even as Aragorn's mind tore desperately at the invisible bonds that  
entrapped him, the dark elf drew back the bowstring and released the arrow.  
  
....................................................................................................................  
  
Up on the hilltop, Legolas watched in dismay as Aragorn first noticed the  
stranger and called out a greeting. However, unlike his dream, Legolas remained  
inactive only for a second before sending Shandarell charging down the hill.  
  
The camp at the other end of the valley seemed impossibly far, yet Shandarell,  
as if sensing his rider's urgency, ran faster than ever. His hoof beats were  
muted, and he seemed to be flying more than running over the uneven ground.  
  
Legolas watched as the dark shadow threw back its hood, and a shudder ran  
through him as the creature was revealed. Yet he did not hesitate, reaching  
back and grabbing his bow and a single arrow.  
  
Even as the elf-creature lifted its bow, pointing it at Aragorn, Legolas raised  
his own, ignoring the pain in his arm. Beneath him, Shandarell slowed, as if  
sensing the great evil that was before him. Legolas urged him on with legs and  
voice, and the brave horse continued forward, although his speed continued to  
slacken.  
  
The dark elf was taking his time, toying with his frozen prey, and this allowed  
Legolas the precious seconds he needed. He knew he would need to get very close  
in order to make the shot in the nighttime darkness.  
  
Two drawstrings were pulled back, and a black arrow was released, its purpose to  
bring pain and death. Yet only a heartbeat later, another arrow was released,  
this one with the purpose of life and hope.  
  
Both arrows were shot with deadly accuracy, speeding toward their intended  
target. Yet only one struck true.  
  
Legolas's shot slammed into the black arrow, sending it careening into the  
night, a mere foot in front of Aragorn!  
  
Legolas felt a thrill of victory, but it was short lived. With startling speed,  
the dark elf spun and released another arrow, this time at Legolas.  
  
Shandarell screamed and swerved, and Legolas threw himself sideways, off the  
horse's back, and away from the deadly path of the arrow.  
  
He hit the ground hard, all the air leaving his lungs, his bow flying from his  
suddenly numb hand to land several feet away. He immediately tried to rise, but  
his body wasn't cooperating, and his vision had been replaced by a thousand  
sparkling dots.  
  
As for Aragorn, the moment the dark creature had turned away from him, the  
invisible ice surrounding him seemed to shatter. He stumbled forward, gasping  
for air to fill his starved lungs. Beside him, Gimli fell to his knees, his own  
harsh breathing filling the air.  
  
Aragorn felt a strong desire to join the dwarf on the ground. A great weariness  
washed over him, robbing him of all his strength. He looked up just in time to  
see Legolas fling himself from his horse's back, a black arrow narrowly missing  
the elf's head.  
  
Pushing the feelings of weakness from him, Aragorn gathered his remaining  
strength. Drawing his sword, he leapt forward to his friend's aid.  
  
*****

 

Aragorn's movement brought Gimli back to his senses. Gritting his teeth, he pushed himself to his feet and drew his axe. Behind him, he heard the ring of metal as the guards drew their own swords. Gimli was about to rush forward and join Legolas and Aragorn when a cry from one of the hobbits caused him to turn.  
  
The four halflings had not been unaffected by the dark elf's gaze. Pippin lay on the ground, a completely dazed look on his face. Merry and Sam were both little better off, though they had managed to make it to their knees. Frodo alone remained standing, and he swayed as if he were about to fall over any second. It was he who had cried out, for he had drawn his blade, Sting, which now shone brightly in the dark night.  
  
Frodo met Gimli's eyes across the flickering flame of the campsite, the same thought running between the two.  
  
"Orcs!" The word had barely left Gimli's mouth when they attacked, swarming out of the shadows, and down off the hills, their howls chilling the blood. Gimli hesitated, torn between the helpless hobbits before him, and his desire to go to Legolas. His hesitation lasted only a second, before he leapt forward. He grabbed Pippin and yanked the shaken hobbit to his feet. "Stand up, for we have a fight before us!"  
  
Frodo helped Merry and Sam up as the rest of the guards circled round. They formed a small, pitiful island against the wave of orcs charging them.  
  
"Stay together," Gimli shouted. "Do not let them separate us! And stay close to the camp fire." He tried to glance over to where he had last seen Legolas and Aragorn, but at just that moment the first wave of orcs reached them. Gimli stuck out with his axe, the force of his blow knocking down two of the creatures. Beside him, the hobbits clustered back to back, striking out at any orc that strayed too close.  
  
Gimli realized that the only thing that saved them from being completely overrun was the fact that the orcs had not stopped to group together. If they had, the little company would have been quickly overcome. As it was, the orcs' attack was scattered. Still, they came upon them in waves, and fight was quickly becoming desperate.  
  
Gimli yanked his axe free from the chest of one orc, then spun and decapitated another of the foul creatures with one blow. All his previous weariness was gone, replaced by the fire of battle. He knew he would not likely survive this battle, yet he intended on taking as many of these foul creatures as possible to the grave with him. Bellowing his war cry, Gimli charged into a group of orcs, his axe hacking left and right.  
  
The hobbits were faring quite well. They hung behind the first defense line formed by Gimli and the guards, taking care of any orcs that managed to break through. The dark blood of the creatures muted Sting's bright glow, but Frodo didn't have the time or inclination to wipe the blade clean.  
  
Beside him, Sam suddenly cried out, dropping to his knees, his hands going to a deep cut above his left eye. The wound was already beginning to gush blood, turning the side of the hobbit's face scarlet. The orc who had dealt the blow lunged forward, intent on finishing the job. The three remaining hobbits leapt to Sam's aid, and so fierce was their attack that the creature fell back from them, before Pippin's blade ended its life. Sam stumbled back to his feet, holding his sword resolutely in his shaking hand.  
  
Another, larger wave of orcs crashed into the small company, sending them stumbling backwards, yet somehow they managed to stay together. However, time was quickly running out for them.  
  
******

 

After Aragorn had broken free from his prison of ice, he had immediately drawn his sword and raced to aid his friend.  
  
He reached Legolas's side, and knelt down next to the fallen elf. His friend was conscious, but seemed to be struggling for breath. His shoulder was bent at an odd angle, and his eyes were glazed and unfocused. Aragorn looked up to the place where his enemy stood.  
  
The dark elf had lowered its bow, and now stood regarding him, an evil smile playing across his face.  
  
As Aragorn once again looked upon the creature, he felt the wave of evil and intense cold try to entrap him a second time. Yet he had broken free once, and he refused to be bound again.  
  
"Has the little elf fallen off his horse?" The question was cold and mocking, and the voice low and full of evil. "I hope he is not hurt too bad. It will take all the fun out of torturing him later on!"  
  
Aragorn rose and met the creature's gaze full on. They were several yards out from the light of the campfire, yet Aragorn somehow still noticed that the dark elf's eyes were completely black, with no sign of pupils. "You will have to pass me first!" he declared, his voice firm and with no hint of fear.  
  
The dark elf merely laughed, the evil sound sending cold fingers of ice down Aragorn's back. Vaguely, he became aware of harsh shouts behind him and the sound of metal clashing against metal. He paid little heed, however, for he was in his own battle, and might as well have been in another world for all the attention he gave to his surroundings. Raising his arm, he lunged forward; his sword sweeping around in a perfect arc aimed at the creature's head.  
  
The elf-creature moved with the speed of a cat, darting out of range of Aragorn's sword, and causing the blade to sweep through empty air.  
  
Aragorn was too good of a swordsman to be thrown off balance by such a simple and expected move. Using his forward momentum, he pivoted on the balls of his feet, spinning smoothly, before coming to rest facing the dark elf. His feet were spread wide, his sword raised before him, his entire body the perfect picture of strength and grace.  
  
Once again, the dark elf laughed, the sound low and mocking. Long seconds passed, as the two merely stared at each other, then the black elf reached beneath his cloak and drew out a long, black sword. The weapon seemed to swallow all the light around it, blending into the dark creature behind it.  
  
"And now, let us find out how long you can stand against me!" With these words, the dark elf sprang forward, quicker than lighting, slashing out with his sword. Yet Aragorn had expected such a move, and his own blade came up, meeting and blocking the blow. For an instant, the two were locked together, face to face, and the evil Aragorn felt emanating from the creature made his stomach turn.  
  
The two flung apart, then came together again in a great flash of ringing blades, before separating once more.  
  
Anyone watching the fight would have had to compare it more to a dance - a wild dance of strength and grace. Aragorn's movements were perfectly timed and perfectly executed, and for a time, it seemed as if he had the upper hand. After the first attack, the dark elf had gone on the defensive, seemingly completely absorbed with fending off Aragorn's attacks, and not mounting any of his own.  
  
Yet no matter how hard Aragorn pressed him, the elf matched him move for move. Several minutes passed, and sweat soon covered his body, despite the cold night wind. It took all his strength to keep his movements even and smooth as his tired body began to rebel against the abuse it had taken this day. His breathing was harsh, and echoed in his ears. Yet even as Aragorn tired, it seemed as if the dark elf gained new strength. His movements became faster and faster.  
  
Then suddenly, without warning, the dark elf switched to the attack, and Aragorn found himself hard pressed to keep that deadly blade away from him. His sword always came up a split second in time to block the other's weapon.  
  
Suddenly, Aragorn realized the truth. The creature was much faster than he. In truth, much faster than anything Aragorn had ever faced before. The dark elf was only toying with him!   
  
`He could finish me anytime he wants,' Aragorn thought, even as once more his sword blocked a blow only a split second before it reached him. He was exhausted, every muscle screaming in protest to the slightest movement. `But I will not allow him to have his way! He will not win with me.'  
  
Even as the thought finished running through his head, Aragorn moved. Not away and back from the creature's sword, but instead, he pivoted forward, right into the path of the dark blade.  
  
The dark elf was so surprised by the daring move that he hesitated slightly, his sword wavering just for an instant. It was just what Aragorn had been looking for. He continued his pivot, gritting his teeth in pain as he felt his enemy's sword cut deeply into the flesh of his ribs. Yet Aragorn had done what he wanted. The dark elf's sword was now on the wrong side of him, and there was nothing between his own blade and the hated creature's unprotected chest.  
  
Aragorn thrust upward with all his remaining strength. Too late, the creature realized his error, and tried to dodge the sword thrust, but for the first time, he was not quite fast enough. Aragorn's blade bit deeply into the dark elf's chest, and the creature stumbled back, hissing in pain, dark blood bubbling out and down its chest.  
  
Aragorn also stumbled backwards, gasping in pain as he felt his own blood soaking his shirt and flowing down his ribs.  
  
Aragorn stared at the dark elf, waiting for the creature's next move. Although he had not managed to kill the creature, he believed that he had managed to grievously injure it. He could only hope he had caused more serious injury than he himself had attained.  
  
The dark elf's next action took Aragorn completely by surprise. The creature began to laugh! At first, just short chuckles, but then it escalated into a full-blown bellow of mirth. Aragorn watched in disbelief, his heart sinking and all hope leaving him, as the wound on the elf began to close, mending itself until all that remained was the spots of blood on the creature's chest.  
  
The dark elf's laugh cut off suddenly, but he continued to grin evilly as he looked at Aragorn. "Do you hear that?" the elf asked softly.  
  
Aragorn once again became aware of the sound of fighting; yet he didn't even have the strength to turn and find its source. All his remaining strength had left him at the sight of the creature's wound closing in on itself.  
  
The dark elf took a step closer. "That is the sound of my orcs, attacking your pitiful company. I am sure the battle will be over soon, and your friends will be nothing but meat for my hungry army's belly.  
  
Aragorn tried to shake his head in denial, but his rebelling body would not even allow that small show of defiance.  
  
"I think I will kill you now," the dark elf continued. "I will do it slowly, for you have caused me great inconvenience. And when I am finished with you, I will allow my orcs to have your little elf friend. I think they would greatly enjoy that, and they should have a reward for their deeds tonight.  
  
"No," Aragorn finally managed, but his voice sounded weak, even to him. He sank to his knees, too weary and hopeless even to remain standing.  
  
"Oh yes. I wonder how long it will take for my creatures to break him. You can ponder that thought as I end your pitiful life." The dark elf raised his sword above Aragorn's head, a malicious smile upon his face.  
  
At the last, Aragorn felt a last stirring of defiance inside himself. If he were going to die, he would at least die on his feet, not kneeling in front of this creature of evil. He gritted his teeth against the pain in his side, and attempted to push himself to his feet.  
  
Yet even before he had managed to rise half way, a great light flared, temporarily blinding him and flooding the entire valley with its warm glow. Aragorn fell back to the ground, and the creature above him let out a shrill cry. It was as if midday had somehow miraculously come to the valley in the dead of night!  
  
Dropping the sword, the dark elf used both his hands to cover his face and eyes against the glare of the bright light. The entire valley was silent, the sound of battle completely gone. Then the silence was shattered by an ear-piercing shriek. The cry still tearing from his lungs, the creature turned and fled into the forest, away from the light.  
  
The last thing Aragorn saw as he slipped into unconsciousness was a figure, standing tall on one of the hills surrounding the valley. The figure was dressed completely in white, that billowed and swept about him in the wind. The light that filled the valley emanated from a single point in the staff held in the figure's outstretched hand. 


	6. Awakenings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Fellowship is reuniting, but may face a new threat that is hunting them all.

"Is he dead?"  
  
"No, his chest is moving. But he's awfully still."  
  
"Maybe he's just sleeping."  
  
"Don't be stupid. If he were sleeping, his eyes would be open!"  
  
"No need to get snippy! I just forgot that's all."  
  
A pause...  
  
"Should we try to rouse him?"  
  
"I'm afraid to touch him. I don't know how badly he's hurt."  
  
Legolas's mind floated on the brink of consciousness. He was aware that the  
conversation over him had been going on for quite some time. The voices were  
familiar, and he vaguely realized that they must be speaking about him, yet he  
could not seem to muster enough strength to respond. His entire body was numb,  
and he did not have the energy to force his eyes open. He was tired, so very  
tired, and he just wished the voices would stop screaming in his ear and let  
him return to the comfortable blackness of oblivion. His thoughts were  
fractured into a thousand pieces that danced and twirled just out of his reach.  
A spark of resistance deep inside was the only thing keeping him from slipping  
completely into darkness. This spark screamed that something was wrong, that he  
must awake, that danger was near! Yet the spark was small, and was quickly  
being drowned out by an overwhelming weariness.  
  
"Do you think that dark elf-creature managed to hit him with an  
arrow?"  
  
"I don't see anything. He doesn't seem to be bleeding at all, except his  
arm, and I think that is an old wound, for it already has a bandage."  
  
"Then what's wrong with him?"  
  
"How would I know? I guess we just have to wait until he wakes up and  
tells us himself."  
  
At the mention of a dark elf, the spark of resistance within Legolas flared and  
he surged once more to the brink of waking. His mind began to function once  
more, and slowly his thoughts gathered and his memories started to return. He  
could remember Aragorn bending over him with concern in his eyes, and then  
everything had gone hazy. Now, he could sense the presence of others near him,  
yet he was still unable to force his eyes open. The smell of smoke and blood  
hung heavy in the air, along with the unmistakable (at least to an elf) stench  
of orcs. He continued to struggle against the weariness that attempted to drag  
him back into darkness, and at last he broke free.  
  
Merry and Pippin were both leaning over Legolas, searching for any clues as to  
what ailed their friend. They both nearly jumped out of their skins when,  
without warning, the elf's eyelids flew open, revealing slightly glazed gray  
eyes. Pippin gave a squeak of surprise.  
  
"Merry? Pippin?" Legolas's voice sounded weak even to him, and his  
eyes were having trouble focusing on the two blurry figures above him.  
  
"It is us," came the somewhat strained response from Merry.  
  
"You scared the curl right out of my hair!" Pippin cried. "Next  
time, warn us before you do that!"  
  
Legolas frowned, confused. He had done nothing but open his eyes. He quickly  
put the matter away, as more important things entered his mind. It was still  
night, and Legolas did not think he had been unconscious for very long.  
"What happened?" he asked as he attempted to sit up.  
  
This was a big mistake. The numbness fled, replaced by sharp, searing pain all  
down his left side. With a gasp, he fell back to the ground, every breath  
sending slices of pain across his chest.  
  
Merry and Pippin gathered close once more, concern written across their faces.  
  
"Perhaps you shouldn't try to move until Gandalf has had a look at you and  
can see if anything is broken," Merry suggested.  
  
Legolas closed his eyes and nodded, and then the hobbit's words sunk in and his  
eyes flew open once more. "Gandalf!?"  
  
Merry and Pippin nodded down at him. "He arrived just a few minutes ago,  
and it's a good thing, too. If he hadn't shown up when he did, none of us would  
be here." Pippin seemed to think about this for a second, and then he  
shook his head. "Actually, we would probably still be here, we would just  
be dead, and it wouldn't matter to us whether we were here or not because we  
wouldn't know the difference and..."  
  
"Shut up, Pippin!" Merry exclaimed, sending an annoyed glare toward  
the younger hobbit. Pippin returned the glare with an indignant one of his own,  
but Merry ignored him and turned back to Legolas.  
  
"What Pippin was trying to say is that we would all be dead right now if  
Gandalf hadn't shown up to save the day. As usual."  
  
"I said that," Pippin mumbled in an injured tone.  
  
Merry continued to ignore him, squatting down next to Legolas. "This has  
been quite an evening for surprises. First, you ride in and save us all from  
that elf-creature, and then Gandalf shows up and saves us from the orcs."  
  
"Orcs?" Legolas asked, still trying to organize his scattered  
thoughts.  
  
"Yes, orcs," Merry replied. "Big, ugly, mean ones, as if there  
are any other kind. They attacked shortly after you rode in. There were lots of  
them, and they just kept coming. I think even Gimli was getting tired, but we  
just kept fighting. Then Gandalf shows up and scared them all away with this  
bright light.  
  
"Where is Gandalf and the others now?" Legolas made another attempt  
at rising, and this time he was ready for the pain. The hobbits reached forward  
and helped him into a sitting position. Legolas was glad of their support as a  
wave of dizziness hit him. He would have fallen back to the ground if the  
hobbits hadn't held him upright. He tried to take deep breaths to clear the  
nausea, but this proved even worse, as sharp pain lanced across his chest at  
every breath. He realized that he must have seriously cracked, if not broken,  
some ribs. His left arm hung uselessly, a burning pain making itself known at  
his shoulder.  
  
Merry was the one to answer his question. "Frodo and Sam are back at camp  
with what remains of Strider's guard. Sam has a nasty gash on his head, and  
Frodo has a couple cuts and bruises, but otherwise they're fine. Strider is  
missing, and his guards wanted to go look for him, but Gandalf wouldn't let  
them. I don't think he wanted a bunch of us running around in the dark,  
especially if the orcs and that other creature are still about! He took Gimli,  
and I think he went in search of Strider himself, after he asked us to look for  
you."  
  
"Asked us?" Pippin joined in. "Don't you mean he told us! I was  
still trying to get over my shock at the orcs all running away, when in strides  
Gandalf, shouting orders left and right. He sees me standing there, and does he  
stop to greet an old companion, `Hello, young Took! Glad to see you! It looks  
as if there was quite a battle you fought here. Good to see you still alive!'  
NO! Instead he tells me to stop standing around gawking and to take Merry and  
find you. Then he grabs Gimli and practically drags him away in search of  
Strider, and Merry and I are left to wander around in the dark, and it's a good  
thing Merry tripped over you, or we would have walked right by and  
then......" Pippin finally trailed off, having run out of things to say or  
breath to say it. Legolas was not sure which. He did not think he would ever  
get used to the hobbits' strange ability to ramble on, without stopping or even  
seeming to breathe. He finally decided the only thing the hobbits were able to  
do as well as eat, was talk.  
  
Pippin's long tirade had allowed him to recover enough that he believed he was  
ready to stand. He was worried about Aragorn and wanted to help find him as  
soon as possible. His keen elven eyes and senses would be a great aid in the  
search. Legolas knew that he would need the hobbits help in rising, a fact that  
galled the pride of the young prince almost as much as falling off the horse in  
the first place. `I should have rolled when I landed!' he berated himself. He  
had never fallen from a horse before unless it was on purpose. The fact that he  
had been injured and knocked unconscious, unable to help his friends in their  
battle made matters even worse. Now, however, he would not let his injuries  
keep him from helping in whatever way he was able.  
  
"Merry, Pippin, if you would aid me, I think I will try to stand  
now." Legolas tried to make his voice strong, but the hobbits were not  
fooled.  
  
Pippin frowned, and Merry even went so far as to shake his head. "I really  
think you should wait for Gandalf," he said once more. "I'm sure he  
will find Strider soon and then come and find us. I cannot really tell in the  
dark, but I think you look a little pale, and if you should pass out again..."  
  
"I won't." Legolas cut him off. "I am fine, and Gandalf and  
Gimli may need my assistance in finding Aragorn." At these words he began  
to struggle to rise, and the hobbits had no choice but to aid him.  
  
It took them three tries before Legolas was standing, albeit a bit shakily. He  
closed his eyes, and was pleased when the dizziness passed more swiftly than  
before. He was in pain, but not unbearably so. Too much time had passed when he  
should have been doing something. The company's original campsite lay off to  
his right. Orc bodies littered the ground, and here and there among them, the  
bodies of some of Aragorn's guard. The campfire, which had been nothing but a  
small flickering flame when he had ridden into the valley, was now growing  
larger as two small figures, one stumbling, ran about and added more firewood.  
  
Looking away from the fire, Legolas began to scan the shadows that had not yet  
been reached by the light of the growing bonfire. It did not take him long to  
spot what he was looking for.  
  
Perhaps fifty yards away, two figures knelt hunched over another form on the  
ground. A sense of dread swept through Legolas, and he immediately started  
making his way towards the trio. He stopped after a few paces, when he came to  
his bow, lying forgotten where it had landed. Merry reached down and retrieved  
it for him, and then they went on.  
  
The hobbits were unable to see were he was headed, but they had traveled with  
him enough that they trusted his elven senses completely. They walked on either  
side of him, and looked as if they were ready to catch him should he fall.  
  
Legolas was forced to keep his movements slow, a fact that annoyed the elf in  
his desire to reach his comrades. He was sure that it was Aragorn lying on the  
ground, and if the great man was dead, Legolas did not think he would ever  
forgive himself!  
  
Pippin was startled when he heard something sounding suspiciously like a curse  
come from above him. He had never heard Legolas swear before, and the sound  
just didn't fit the elf.  
  
"Do you always get this angry after a fall?" he asked timidly.  
  
Legolas glanced down at him and grimaced, whether in pain or at the hobbit's  
words, Pippin was unsure.  
  
"I do not usually fall!" was the elf's curt answer.  
  
Merry thought he noticed a hint of strain in the elf's voice, which had nothing  
to do with the pain he was undoubtedly in. He was curious about this, and  
couldn't help wonder what was upsetting his friend so much.  
  
Pippin failed to notice the tension in Legolas. All he saw was that his friend  
was upset and needed cheering up, and he set himself to this task.  
  
"Don't worry about it, Legolas. I've fallen from ponies many times, and  
that is saying something, since I don't ride often. I prefer my own feet. Why,  
once I fell off one old beast and cracked my head open and had to stay in bed  
for a week. And of course, we ride in saddles. It must be twice as hard to stay  
mounted riding the way that you do, and its no surprise you fell, riding as  
fast as you were. It's a wonder you haven't come off a thousand times before  
now. I would have to practice for years to be able to ride the way you do  
and........"  
  
"Pippin!" Merry cut him off. "I do not think you're helping any,  
and it may be time for you to practice keeping your mouth shut!"  
  
Pippin glanced up at Legolas's face and decided that, for once, Merry was  
probably right.  
  
Legolas was glad for the silence. He knew the hobbits were meaning well, but  
right now, their endless chatter was just giving him a headache. He was nearing  
the place where Gandalf and Gimli knelt over Aragorn, and at the sight of his  
friend's still, pale face, he quickened his pace, ignoring his own discomfort  
in his worry over Aragorn.  
  
Gimli glanced up as they approached and then began to rise. Legolas quickly  
motioned for him to stay were he was. He could tell the dwarf was worried about  
him, so he gave his friend a reassuring smile and a nod of the head. Gimli was  
not going to be put off that easily, and his eyes narrowed as he began to look  
the elf up and down, but he did settle back down to the ground. Legolas remained  
standing behind Gandalf, looking over the wizard's shoulder and feeling  
tremendous relief at the sight of Aragorn's chest rising and falling. The  
wizard had pushed the man's shirt up and was now intently pressing a clean  
white cloth against a hidden wound.  
  
"How is he," Legolas asked softly, not wanting to disturb the  
wizard's work. On either side of him, Merry and Pippin both looked down at the  
still warrior, and for once they remained silent, their faces grave.  
  
Gandalf let out a tired sigh, the sound causing Legolas's fears to rise, but  
the wizard's next words soothed his worries. "The wound is deep, and he  
has lost much blood, but he is strong and will recover soon. Even now he is  
waking."  
  
The words had barely left the wizard's mouth when Aragorn let out a small moan,  
shifted slightly, and opened his eyes. Gimli leaned forward and Legolas and the  
hobbits stepped closer, Legolas catching Pippin muttering something about  
Aragorn at least knowing how to wake properly. However, he was too intent upon  
the waking warrior to pay the hobbit's words much attention.  
  
Aragorn's eyes showed the same confusion Legolas had felt upon first waking,  
and when the king of Gondor tried to push himself upright, the result was once  
again the same as his own had been. The only difference was that this time,  
Gimli and Gandalf were there to reach forward and catch the man, helping him  
into a sitting position.  
  
"Take it slow and easy," Gimli urged, still supporting Aragorn's left  
side. "Take a moment to catch your breath before we try to get you on your  
feet."  
  
Aragorn nodded, taking deep, even breaths. Now that he was sitting, Gandalf  
finished tying off the bandage and lowered the blood soaked shirt back down  
over Aragorn's chest. Aragorn smiled his thanks to the wizard, and then turned  
his eyes to Legolas and the hobbits. "It seems the fellowship is together  
once more," he said weakly, then frowned and started looking about him.  
  
Gandalf was the one to answer his unspoken question. "The other two  
hobbits are alive and safe back at the camp sight, though I think Sam will have  
quite a headache for a while. You also may find that the number of your guards  
has been greatly reduced."  
  
Aragorn sighed and closed his eyes. "At least the battle is over." He  
opened his eyes once more and looked first at Gandalf, and then Legolas.  
"But there are two here to whom I owe my life, and I must think of a way  
to repay them."  
  
Legolas smiled down at Aragorn. "I did not rescue you in hopes of  
repayment, although I may have something in mind."  
  
"As do I," Gandalf said, "but the time for thanks and talk of  
repayment will come later. If you have regained your wits, let us be getting  
you on your feet and return to camp."  
  
Legolas was surprised at the urgency and wariness in the wizard's voice, and he  
studied the man closely for the first time. He could only see the side of  
Gandalf's face, yet it seemed to him as if the wizard looked older and more  
tired than Legolas ever recalled seeing him.  
  
From the small frown on Aragorn's face, Legolas guessed that he had noticed  
this as well. Aragorn said nothing however, except to ask Gimli for help in  
standing. With Gimli on his left side and Gandalf on his right, Aragorn managed  
to make it to his feet on the first try.  
  
Gimli and Gandalf kept a steadying arm around Aragorn's waist, until he assured  
them that he could stand on his own.  
  
Legolas shook his head at the picture they made. Aragorn, flanked on each side  
by a dwarf and a wizard, and then him, with his own two small escorts. He  
smiled down at Pippin, and the hobbit returned the smile, relieved that the elf  
seemed to be feeling better and in a more pleasant mood.  
  
Gandalf turned and looked at Legolas. "How bad are your own  
injuries?" the wizard asked, looking him up and down.  
  
"Not so bad that they cannot wait until a better time to examine  
them." Legolas glanced toward the campfire, just making out two small  
figures standing at the edge of the light and peering into the darkness.  
"I think it best if we return to the camp now, before Frodo and Sam decide  
to come looking for us."  
  
Gandalf nodded. "Yes, we should return now, and then prepare to move out  
as soon as possible."  
  
"Move out!" Pippin exclaimed. "Tonight!? You mean we're going to  
travel on tonight?"  
  
"Yes, young Took, that is precisely what I mean, and unless you wish to be  
left behind, I suggest you keep up with the rest of us." With these words,  
Gandalf turned and strode toward the campfire. With a shrug, Aragorn started  
after him, and Gimli followed in case Aragorn should need support.  
  
"I do not think he likes me very much," Pippin mumbled to himself.  
  
Legolas looked down at him in surprise, but Merry spoke before he could even  
muster a reply.  
  
"Don't be foolish. He loves you and you know it. Now come on, before he  
turns around and returns to skin the hide off the both of us!"  
  
Both hobbits looked up at Legolas expectantly, and with a shake of his head he  
started off after Aragorn and Gimli. The two had stopped a few yards off to  
wait for them, and both wore concerned frowns as they watched Legolas make his  
way over to them. Legolas knew that his movements were somewhat less than his  
usual gracefulness. Each step was made awkward by the pain from his ribs and  
shoulder, and yet Aragorn looked little better. The man's face was as white as  
a ghost.  
  
"You should have let Gandalf look at your injuries," the dwarf  
grumbled, eyeing Legolas shrewdly. "I think you are in more pain than you  
let on."  
  
"I am fine," Legolas repeated. "We should be heading to camp  
now, for I think Gandalf truly intends to leave as soon as possible."  
  
"I wonder what all the hurry is about," Gimli mused as the five began  
moving towards the campground once more. "Does he believe that the orcs  
and that creature will return once more?"  
  
"From the looks on their faces when he appeared with that light, I think  
they are probably still running." Merry put in.  
  
Aragorn shook his head. "I do not believe we need worry about another  
attack tonight, but it is obvious that Gandalf knows something he is not  
sharing with the rest of us."  
  
Legolas nodded. He had gotten the same feeling from the wizard.  
  
"Is that anything new?" Gimli muttered under his breath, so low that  
only Legolas heard him.  
  
 _Part 2_  
  
The return of Aragorn, Gimli, Legolas, and the two hobbits to the camp was met  
with great joy from Frodo, Sam, and the three remaining guards. There was a few  
minutes of complete confusion, as everyone shouted greetings to everyone else,  
all at the exact same time. Questions and exclamations began to fly through the  
air, and everyone seemed to be talking at once.  
  
Gandalf stood a little apart, watching the chaos. He could not stop a small  
smile from lighting his worn face, for it was quite a sight.  
  
Aragorn and Legolas stood side by side, their faces mirroring dazed confusion,  
as they were surrounded by four hobbits, one dwarf, and three men, all of whom  
were shouting at them in their attempt to be heard over the others.  
  
Gandalf could not decide whether the hobbits were asking Aragorn and Legolas  
questions about what had befallen them, or whether they were trying to tell  
their own tale. He finally decided that it was both. Gimli, hands on hips,  
seemed to be having a one sided argument with Legolas, who was looking  
desperately around him, trying to decide who to respond to first. Gandalf did  
not think he had ever seen the elf so flustered. To top it all off, the three  
guards were attempting to push pass an immovable dwarf in order to reach their  
king. A loud buzz filled the air, and nobody seemed to be able to hear what  
anybody else was saying.  
  
Gandalf raised his staff in the air, hoping to bring some order; but in the  
confusion, no one noticed him. Frowning, he tried loudly clearing his throat, a  
sound that in the past had caused kings to shut up and listen to his council.  
The sound was lost in the noise, and no one even glanced in his direction. The  
noise level was getting louder and louder, and Aragorn looked as if he was  
about to fall over any second. Legolas looked little better.  
  
Frustration rising, Gandalf let out a very undignified shout.  
  
Immediate silence.  
  
All eyes turned toward the wizard, and even the hobbits quickly shut their  
mouths at his frown. "Now that I have your attention," the wizard  
began, running his eyes over each member of the company before him. Most  
dropped their gaze under the wizard's fierce scowl, and the guards shifted  
uncomfortably and looked as if they wished to be elsewhere.  
  
"I know you all have questions to ask and stories to tell." Gandalf  
eyed the hobbits, and then shifted his gaze to Legolas. The elf looked startled  
under Gandalf's scrutiny, but met his eyes squarely. Something passed between  
the two, and Legolas nodded slightly. Gandalf looked away and continued  
addressing the group. "However, now is not the time, and this is not the  
place. Your questions will have to wait until later, for I intend to have left  
this valley far behind by morning. Gandalf whirled suddenly, so that he was  
facing the three guards straight on. "You!"  
  
All three men jumped slightly.  
  
"I want you three to round up as many of the horses as you can without  
straying too far from the fire. Bring them in and begin to prepare them for our  
journey."  
  
"And you." He turned to the hobbits.  
  
"Sam and Frodo, you are in charge of the packs. Pack them swiftly and then  
bring them over to the horses. Merry and Pippin, go and find some large  
branches that can be used as torches. Each of us will have a light when we ride  
from this place. Gimli, aid the hobbits. And hurry, all of you."  
  
The company split, each person running to do their assigned task. Legolas and  
Aragorn both let out a relieved sigh, and then turned and smiled at each other.  
"That was interesting," Aragorn said with a bit more cheer than he  
felt.  
  
Gandalf snorted, still standing a few paces off and eying them both up and  
down, and they soon began to fidget under the wizard's intense stare. Finally,  
Gandalf nodded to himself, and then turned first to Aragorn.  
  
"I want you to sit down and rest until time to go," he ordered  
Aragorn. "You have lost much blood, and you need to regain your strength,  
for it may be needed ere this journey is over."  
  
Aragorn looked as if he wanted to argue, but the wizard's reasoning and his own  
weariness won out. He gratefully sank down onto a log and closed his eyes,  
letting out a long and tired sigh.  
  
After making sure that Aragorn was going to stay put, Gandalf turned to  
Legolas. He examined the elf fully, even taking off the bandage and looking at  
the old cut on Legolas's arm. He decided that Legolas had merely cracked his  
ribs and not broken them, and he bound Legolas's chest tightly with some cloth,  
then began to examine the elf's left arm. It didn't take him long to come to  
the conclusion that Legolas's left shoulder was dislocated, and would need to  
be put back in place.  
  
"I am afraid this is going to hurt," Gandalf told the elf gently, as  
he placed his right hand above the injured shoulder, and used his left hand to  
grasp Legolas's arm. Legolas did not make a sound as the wizard worked on him,  
but the blood drained from his face, and Gandalf worried that the elf would pass  
out.  
  
But Legolas remained conscious, and when Gandalf was finished, he place the  
elf's arm in a makeshift sling, and moved him over to sit next to Aragorn.  
  
"You will be unable to use your bow for quite some time, I am afraid. But  
if you take care, and do not over do it, I believe you will recover  
swiftly."  
  
Legolas nodded and thanked the wizard weakly. Gandalf smiled at him, and then  
rose, intending to go and check on the progress of the others. He stopped,  
however, when Aragorn called out to him.  
  
He turned to the ex-ranger, arching a questioning eyebrow.  
  
"I was just wondering," Aragorn said curiously, "why you are in  
such a hurry to leave? We have a camp already set up here, and it will be  
morning in a few hours, unless I miss my guess."  
  
"Two and a half hours," Legolas said drowsily from beside him.  
  
Gandalf studied them both for a second, then stooped and sat down.  
  
"Perhaps it is simply that I have no wish to spend a moment longer than  
necessary in this graveyard." Gandalf's voice was casual, and he looked  
about him pointedly at the scattered bodies of dead orcs.  
  
"Perhaps," Aragorn returned. "But I do not think that is your  
reason, at least not entirely. You know something that you are keeping from the  
rest of us. What is it?"  
  
Gandalf shook his head. "You may be right, son of Arathorn. But if that is  
the case, then I choose to keep my own council, and I assure you that you will  
know what you must, when you must."  
  
By the look on his face, it was obvious that Aragorn did not like this answer  
very much, but he merely shrugged and met Gandalf's eyes. "As you say, but  
I wish to put the dead to rest before we leave. I did not know them well, but  
they died because they accompanied their king on a mission, and I do not think  
they should be left to rot amongst the corpses of orcs!"  
  
Gandalf nodded. "There is no time to burry them tonight, but we shall  
carry them with us until daylight, when we can send them properly to their  
peace."  
  
Aragorn agreed to this, and then he only had one more question to ask.  
"Where is it that you will be leading us?"  
  
"We must go in all haste back to Minas Tirith," the wizard replied.  
  
"Is the city in danger?" Aragorn asked worriedly.  
  
Gandalf shook his head. "It is not the city, I fear, that is in  
danger." With these ominous words, Gandalf once more rose. "Regain  
your strength, for we will be leaving shortly." Then he turned and left  
them.  
  
Aragorn and Legolas sat silently for a time, each lost in their own thoughts.  
Suddenly, a loud scuffle across camp drew their attention.  
  
Two of the guards were struggling to control one of the horses. A rope was  
around the beast's neck, but whenever one of them tried to approach with a  
saddle, the horse would rear and paw the air, letting out a shrill whinny.  
  
Legolas immediately recognized Shandarell, and he rose painfully and began  
making his way toward the horse. Aragorn also rose and followed him.  
  
Legolas reached the guard who held the noose about the great horse's neck.  
Reaching forward, he took the rope from the man's hand and stepped close to the  
horse, whispering softly and gently. Shandarell immediately calmed, stepping  
forward and laying his head against Legolas's chest. He stroked the smooth,  
strong neck, pulling the noose over Shandarell's head and freeing the horse.  
The second guard, seeing him calmed, stepped forward with the saddle, but  
Legolas shook his head.  
  
"He will not take saddle nor bridle," Legolas explained to the  
confused man. "He is alright now, and I will take care of him." Both  
guards shrugged, and then turned and left to complete their tasks.  
  
Legolas continued to stroke Shandarell, and the horse started to ruffle his  
tunic with his soft nose, snuffling and snorting with contentment. Aragorn came  
up beside the elf and reached out to stroke the horse's side. Shandarell looked  
at him suspiciously, but allowed Aragorn to continue touching him.  
  
"He is truly a magnificent animal," Aragorn said softly. "I have  
not seen his like since Shadowfax. Where did you come by him?"  
  
Legolas looked up at Aragorn and smiled somewhat guiltily. "Actually, he  
comes from Rohan. He was part of the herd sent to you as a gift from  
Eomer."  
  
Aragorn's eyes widened, and he looked at Shandarell once more. "It seems  
it is quite a gift Eomer has sent me, if this beast is any guide to the  
rest."  
  
"He was the best of what I saw," Legolas admitted softly. Shandarell  
had lifted his head and begun nuzzling his neck.  
  
Aragorn laughed as he watched the horse begin to play with Legolas's long  
golden hair. "Would I be correct in my guess that this is the repayment  
you spoke of earlier?" he asked.  
  
"Only if you will be parted with him," Legolas said simply.  
  
Aragorn grew serious. "You would be gaining a great beast...." A  
sudden smile broke out on his face. "I must admit, I do not think this is  
my choice to make. Indeed, it appears as if Shandarell has already chosen you,  
and so he is yours, not by my choice, but his own.  
  
Legolas returned the smile, and opened his mouth to thank Aragorn, but the  
words never left his mouth, for at that very moment, Shandarell chomped down on  
a clump of Legolas's hair and gave it a firm tug.


	7. Gandalf the White

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Fellowship is reuniting, but may face a new threat that is hunting them all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was mostly derived as I was sitting in

_Author's note: This chapter was mostly derived as I was sitting in a hotel room, chewing ice, and hoping for inspiration to strike. However, I think I left my muse behind when I traveled. I hope you enjoy and please review when you are finished!_  
  
A brisk wind blew across the lands, bringing with it the clean and fresh scent of rain. In the east, the morning sun struggled to rise and break free of the dark clouds that where slowly massing on the horizon, like a dark army prepared to attack. Even as the sun continued to climb into the sky, the clouds spread out and seemed to grow even darker. The breeze, which had been cool and pleasant to begin, became bitter and sharp, carrying the ominous whisper of distant thunder.  
  
Muttering under his breath, and pulling his cloak closer about him, Gandalf studied the skies before him, trying to figure out when the storm would reach them. Beneath him, his mount shifted and began tossing his head, picking up on his rider's anxiety. Gandalf patted the creature's neck and soon the horse calmed. Not for the first time, the wizard wished that he had Shadowfax with him, but it was not so and wishing for it would do no good. Shadowfax had been set free to roam as he pleased near the great elven city of Rivendell, and Gandalf had not had the time to summon him when he had been forced to leave the city and travel to Minas Tirith in all haste.  
  
Now, Gandalf was glad of his decision not to wait, for he had barely reached the company in time. This dark line of thought caused the wizard to sigh and shake his head. Truly, the upcoming storm was not the darkest problem this company would face. Although, judging from the sound of the swiftly approaching thunder, it possibly would be the next.  
  
Gandalf turned to assess those riding behind him. The company had been traveling for several hours and yet there had been little conversation. An unspoken agreement had passed between them all that the time and place for questions and answers would come later. Now, everyone seemed content to keep to their own private musings.  
  
Aragorn, upon Roheryn, rode directly behind Gandalf, and following him was Legolas and Gimli on Shandarell. The four hobbits, upon their ponies came next, and the guards brought up the rear, leading the extra horses that carried the dead. Every face was tired and haggard, but there had been little complaint from anyone, even the hobbits.  
  
Gandalf studied Aragorn and Legolas a bit closer than he had the others. Both sat tall and proud upon their mounts, and a casual glance would have shown nothing wrong. Gandalf, however, gave them more than a casual glance, and his penetrating gaze missed nothing. Aragorn was far too pale, and an unnatural strain marred Legolas's usually smooth features. 'Another problem that will need to be dealt with soon' Gandalf thought to himself. A loud role of thunder interrupted his thoughts, and he turned to glare at the menacing clouds.  
  
_'First things first. I shall take care of one problem at a time and hope that they do not all come crashing down upon me at once!'_  
  
Gandalf grunted, then turned once more to face those behind him. "Legolas," he called out against the wind. The elf glanced up, and then spurred Shandarell forward, coming alongside the wizard. "I am in need of your assistance."  
  
Legolas's eyebrows rose slightly, his only sign of surprise. "Anything," he said immediately.  
  
Gimli grunted and shook his head. "I strongly suggest that any task you may have should be given to one of the others. Legolas is not well, and though he may be good at disguising it, he cannot fool me!"  
  
Legolas glanced down at the dwarf and frowned. He seemed about to reply when Gandalf interrupted him. "I am perfectly aware of Legolas's condition, master dwarf. I merely wished to ask him about the weather."  
  
"The weather," Gimli repeated, nonplussed. "You called us up here to chat about the weather?"  
  
Gandalf ignored him, directing his questions to Legolas. "When do you think the storm will reach us, and how long will it last?"  
  
Legolas studied the dark clouds for several minutes. He seemed to be listening, as if a small voice that only he could hear rode upon the wind and whispered secrets into his ear. His long golden hair whipped about his face in the strong wind, yet he ignored it, completely intent upon his task. Finally, he turned to Gandalf. "The storm will strike before a hour and a quarter has passed. It will be quite fierce, but I do not believe it will continue long. It will release its force all at once, but will quickly wear itself out."  
  
"Before nightfall?" Gandalf asked, trying to make his voice casual.  
  
Legolas sent him a sharp look, but he only nodded. "Yes, before nightfall."  
  
Gandalf nodded. He had guessed much along the same lines, but now he was sure.  
  
A call from behind him caused him to turn. The others had all crowded close behind in their effort to hear what was being said, and it was Pippin who had called out to the wizard. "Gandalf, it has occurred to me that I cannot remember the last time I have eaten. I think that my stomach is starting to gnaw on my backbone. I don't suppose we could stop for a spell, so we can grab a bite to eat?"  
  
This simple statement had a huge effect on the other hobbits. They immediately all sat up taller and began adding their arguments in favor of a stop. The rest of the group held expressions of doubtful hopefulness.  
  
Gandalf chuckled to himself. He had been expecting this for quite some time, and considered it surprising that they had gotten as far as they had. He raised his hand, immediately silencing the flow of pleas coming from the hobbits. "There is a copse of trees a short way ahead. We will stop there and eat and rest. The storm will be upon us soon, and so we will wait out the worst of it there, and then continue when it passes on."  
  
All faces showed happy relief at the wizard's words. The hobbits immediately began discussing various stews and soups that could be made with their meager supplies, but Gandalf soon dashed their hopes by telling them he would not allow a fire to be built. Even this news could not keep the hobbits down for long, and they began to plan on the best way to prepare a grand meal out of dried meat and bread.  
  
Gandalf glanced at Aragorn and Legolas. Both seemed relieved that they would be stopping, and Gandalf was glad he had made the choice. Though the delay could prove costly, he knew that the only way the two would regain their strength would be rest and food. He also knew that their strength could very well be needed before this trip was over.  
  
_part 2_  
  
The copse of trees that Gandalf had spoken of was more like a small forest made up of giant oak and elm all set close together with their branches interlaced as they reached toward the sky. The large group of trees looked oddly out of place on the bare and rolling hills. The only other trees to be seen were lone sentinels, standing tall and proud on their lonely watch. As the company approached the stand of trees, the hobbits fell silent, casting wary glances toward the towering branches. The little light that was able to penetrate the dark clouds seemed to be swallowed underneath the dark boughs, giving the trees a dark and sinister appearance. Everyone was reminded of what had come from the last group of trees like this. Only Gandalf and Legolas seemed unaffected by the dark appearance of the trees.  
  
Riding slightly behind Gandalf, Aragorn peered into the deep gloom beneath the swiftly nearing trees, searching for any sign of movement. He knew his actions were unneeded, for Legolas had been studying them since they first came into view, and the elf would have warned the others long ago if he had seen anything. Yet still, Aragorn could not shake the feeling that orcs, or something worse, was about to leap from the trees and attack the small company.  
  
Frodo rode his pony up beside Aragorn and then spoke quietly to him. "I do not like the looks of those trees. Anything could be lurking in their shadows, and it is as dark as night under there."  
  
Looking down at the top of Frodo's head, Aragorn shook off his own feelings of misgiving and attempted to cheer up his companion, who had far too many worries as it was. "Do not fear what lies ahead. Legolas would have warned us long ago if there was any danger." Even as he said the words, Aragorn felt a pang of guilt for his own doubt in the proven abilities of his elven companion.  
  
"I know," Frodo said quietly. "And yet, I cannot help but remember last night and..." he trailed off mid-sentence, still eyeing the trees that now lay only a few strides ahead.  
  
"Do not think on those things," Aragorn admonished gently. "We were caught unaware once, but it will not happen again. Think only on the shelter these trees will offer from the approaching storm."  
  
"I am not sure that I would not rather rest in the rain," Frodo muttered softly beneath his breath.  
  
Aragorn caught the mumbled words, but did not reply as the company moved into the shadows of the small forest. It was as if a blanket had been thrown around them, suffocating all light and sound. The almost continuous noise of thunder now seemed muted by the interlocked branches high above their heads, and the dim light grew even darker, giving the appearance of dusk instead of merely mid-morning. A closeness and menace seemed to surround them, causing everyone to tense.  
  
The horses, affected by the dread they sensed from their riders or perhaps from the surrounding trees, began to shift restlessly. Two of the guards mounts began sidestepping, snorting in displeasure while their riders fought to keep them under control as well as keep hold of the nervous pack horses. The hobbit's ponies seemed to spook at every noise or role of thunder, and Gandalf's mount stomped his foot and let out a shrill neigh that seemed to be swallowed by the oppressive trees about them. Roheryn was too well trained to do anything more than toss his head slightly and let out a soft snort. Shandarell alone seemed to be unaffected by the other's nervousness. His ears flicked back and forth, and he looked to be studying the trees with complete nonchalance.  
  
_'He seems as at home as Legolas in these woods,' Aragorn thought wryly. 'They truly do make the perfect pair_.'  
  
Aragorn was beginning to wonder if Frodo might have been right, and the company should have braved the rains rather than come into this oppressive wood. On the other side of Gandalf, Legolas reached out with his good arm and gently touched the trunk of one of the big trees. He murmured something softly in his own language, and then suddenly he began to sing. His voice was low and soft, and yet seemed to penetrate even the darkest shadows of the wood. He sang in the language of the Sindarian elves, and all who heard felt a strange stirring within their breasts. The horses calmed, pointing their ears in the direction that the elf rode, and even the trees seemed to be listening.  
  
Aragorn found himself relaxing and suddenly the trees did not seem quite so threatening and oppressive. The elf's words seemed to bring their own light with them, wrapping around the surrounding giants, and bringing out the fresh scent of the trees themselves. Aragorn took a deep breath, filling his lungs with the smell of life and freshness.  
  
Legolas sang on for several more minutes, and when his song came to an end the following silence seemed loud and empty. Frodo sighed contentedly, all of his former tenseness gone. "I think I know why Bilbo chose to go to Rivendell when he left the Shire," Frodo whispered, almost afraid that speaking would break the spell formed by Legolas's song. "I could listen to the elves sing all day."  
  
Aragorn could only nod, looking at the surrounding trees with a new awe and respect.  
  
"I could only catch a few of the words," Frodo admitted. "But I believe it was a song about trees."  
  
"Yes," Aragorn answered. "It was the story of the elves first awakening the Ents. It was filled with great joy and great sadness, as all the elven songs seem to be. I have not heard it sung before, and though there is probably many elven songs I have not heard, I believe that Legolas created this one himself."  
  
"You mean Legolas made up that song?" Frodo asked, amazed. He glanced over to where the elf rode, a new respect on his face. "It was so beautiful! I bet it took him forever to come up with it all."  
  
"I doubt it," Aragorn answered. "The elves do not have to think about their songs the way that we do. The words merely come to them when they need them."  
  
The company had reached what Aragorn suspected to be near the center of the group of trees. Gandalf called a halt, and everyone began to gratefully dismount. As Aragorn's feet hit the ground, a sharp pain flared in his side and a wave of dizziness hit him as he was forced to carry his own weight.  
  
Waiting for the pain to pass, he took the opportunity to look at their camping spot. Two giant oaks spread a wide canopy above the ground, a natural shelter for when the rain hit. The ground beneath the trees was soft with a layer of leaves and grass, and the wind could not reach them here. Aragorn thought it a very nice place to stop, and wondered at his earlier misgivings. He felt a great desire to go and sink down beneath one of the trees and rest, but there were still things that needed to be done. With a sigh, he glanced toward the horses that carried the bodies of his fallen guard. He knew that they might not get a better chance to bury the men. He would not allow himself to relax until they had been laid to rest. He owed them at least that much.  
  
Aragorn had only taken a single step when someone caught his arm and stopped him. He turned and was surprised to see that it was Gimli who had grabbed him. The dwarf looked up at him solemnly, but with a trace of determination.  
  
"I know what you are thinking," Gimli said quietly, glancing toward the dead guards. "And now I will tell you what I think. The only reason Gandalf allowed this stop was so that you and Legolas could rest. And that is what I urge you to do now. Others can take care of what must be done."  
  
Aragorn shook his head. "They were my guards," he said simply.  
  
"Yes, and if they were still here they would want to see you resting." Gandalf and Legolas had joined Gimli, and now the wizard studied Aragorn closely. "You and Legolas should remain here with the hobbits. Gimli and I will take care of burying the dead. I spotted a very nice clearing on our trip in, and I believe it will not take us long to finish the task. They will be laid to rest properly, have no fear."  
  
Aragorn was still not happy with the situation, but he knew that it would be futile to argue with the wizard. He may be king of all Gondor, but Gandalf was a wizard and followed his own set of rules. He nodded wearily and then set to the task of helping the hobbits remove the packs containing their food supplies. Legolas took care of the horses, making sure they were secured and comfortable. Gandalf, Gimli, and the three guards set off back in the direction they had just ridden, leading the pack horses.  
  
Aragorn stood and watched them, wondering how they would complete their task, for they had brought no shovels. Sighing, and deciding to leave that detail to Gandalf, he turned and looked for a comfortable position where he could sit and rest.  
  
The hobbits were busy pulling provisions from the packs and arguing on the best way to prepare the meal. Legolas moved over to the base of one of the giant oaks. He glanced up at the branches a bit wistfully, before sinking down to lean against the trunk of the tree. Aragorn joined him, and the two sat in silence, watching the hobbits and waiting for the return of the others.  
  
A quarter of an hour passed, and the storm finally released its fury. The rain came down in torrents and the thunder continued to growl overhead. The branches and leaves of the two oaks diverted much of the rain, keeping the little company sheltered beneath fairly dry.  
  
Another hour passed, with the storm giving no sign of lessening. Aragorn was beginning to worry. Gandalf and the others had been gone far too long. He sat up and began scanning the surrounding trees for any sign of movement, some of his earlier misgivings returning to plague him. He had just decided to rise and go in search of them, when beside him, Legolas straightened and glanced into the deep gloom. "They are coming," he said softly. Aragorn returned to searching the surrounding trees, and true enough, a couple minutes later the others materialized out of the trees and hurried toward their shelter.  
  
Aragorn rose to meet them, but Legolas remained sitting, content to watch. Gandalf, Gimli, and the three guards were all soaked, and Gandalf seemed to be near the point of exhaustion, leaning heavily on his staff. Gimli kept sending the wizard a worried glance, but Gandalf waved him off and walked over to the hobbits. Lowering himself to a sitting position, he gave the hobbits a rare smile. "So, what have you prepared for our meal?" he asked with a cheerfulness that seemed at odds with the deep weariness on his face.  
  
The next hour was spent huddled in the little shelter, eating the meal the hobbits had prepared, and listening to the howling intensity of the storm. Merry was the first to break the silence. Looking toward the wizard, he asked what time it was.  
  
Gandalf shrugged "I would say it is nearing noon, if I have kept my wits about me." He glanced toward Legolas for confirmation, but the elf was leaning back against the tree, his eyes looking toward something unseen. Whether he was asleep or merely deep in thought, Gandalf was unsure, but at least he was resting. Gandalf glanced toward Aragorn and wished the man would take Legolas's example.  
  
"It may be relatively dry under here, but I am still freezing, and I hope this storm ends soon." Merry's voice was wistful as he glanced out at the sheet of falling rain.  
  
"It may be cold," Pippin joined in, "but it is nothing compared to the cold I felt last night when that 'thing' appeared."  
  
"Let us not talk about that now," Sam broke in, shivering despite his heavy cloak.  
  
"It was like a giant ball of ice came out of nowhere and hit me right in the stomach." Pippin ignored the pleading look that Sam shot him. "I couldn't even breathe, let alone move. It was like nothing I've ever experienced before. Did you feel the same way, Aragorn?" the hobbit asked curiously.  
  
Aragorn nodded thoughtfully. "Aye, I did. And it is as you said, I have never experienced anything like it, nor do I wish to again."  
  
"I do not understand," Frodo said slowly. "Every elf that I have ever encountered has been beautiful and pure, and yet this elf was not. How can this be?"  
  
"Because what you saw was not an elf." All eyes turned to Legolas, who had risen and made his way over closer to the group.  
  
"Not an elf?" Frodo asked him softly, and Legolas merely nodded.  
  
"But we all saw him," Merry broke in. "He looked a lot like you, Legolas, if you don't mind me saying so. How can you say that he was not an elf."  
  
"It is hard for me to explain, Merry," Legolas said slowly, glancing toward the wizard. "Elves simply 'know' other elves, as I did not 'know' this creature. It was almost as if he was wearing the disguise of an elf, but I felt no kinship with the creature."  
  
"An elf disguise?" Pippin exclaimed. "That's impossible."  
  
"Impossible?" Gandalf joined the conversation for the first time. "Yesterday, you would have said that it is impossible for a single creature to freeze you where you stand by a simple look, and less than two years ago, you would have said it was impossible for a ring to rule the fate of all living creatures. I do not think that impossible is the word you wish to use."  
  
A silence fell as all considered the wizard's words. Finally, Aragorn broke the silence. "Gandalf, do you know who, or what, this creature is that attacked us?"  
  
Gandalf met Aragorn's eyes and the two merely stared at each other for several long seconds. "Yes, I know," he answered simply. "And Legolas is right, it was no elf!"  
  
Another silence reigned, and everyone leaned toward the wizard expectantly. Once again, it was Aragorn who broke the silence. "Will you not tell us then? Any creature who can unite the orcs and bring them into Gondor once more is of great concern to me."  
  
"I will tell you," Gandalf answered. "But now is not the proper time or place. You must wait a bit longer."  
  
"Wait!" Aragorn exclaimed, rising to his feet. "You keep telling me to wait, but what I wish to know is when will it be the proper time and place? If Gondor is in danger, a single lost moment could be deadly!"  
  
"The story I have is long and dark. Too dark to be told out here in the wild, for I fear that if would cause the hearts of some of this party to despair." The wizard gave a barely perceptible nod of his head toward the hobbits. "Also, this story involves the members of our fellowship, and thus should remain with these members." Again, Gandalf motioned toward the spot where the three guards sat huddled. "When we reach Minas Tirith, we will hold council, and you shall know all that I do. Until that time, I pray that you sit down and be at peace, Heir of Isuldir, and trust me the way you once did."  
  
Aragorn sighed and sank back to the ground. It was clear that he was still frustrated, and a tense silence followed.  
  
"Perhaps now is the time for you to tell us your tale," Gandalf said, looking at Legolas.  
  
Legolas nodded. "Yes, for it deals with what we have just spoken of, and has just recently become more clear to me."  
  
All eyes once more turned to Legolas as he began to tell his tale. He studied the faces of his listeners as he talked. The three guards looked confused, the hobbits looked frightened, Gimli looked thoughtful, Aragorn looked dark and dangerous, and Gandalf showed no expression at all.  
  
By the time Legolas ended his tale, the rain was beginning to lessen to a drizzle and the thunder was becoming more distant. Aragorn rose once more and began pacing, muttering under his breath. The hobbits all sat clustered close to each other, eyeing the dark shadows of the forest around them, as if expecting orcs and other dark creatures to come jumping out at them at any moment.  
  
"You said the story has become more clear to you," Gimli wondered, "how so?  
  
"One of the things that confused and troubled me most was that the slain elves had drawn no weapons. I believe I understand that now. If that creature can freeze its prey, it is no wonder they could not fight back."  
  
"How do we know that the creature we saw last night was the same one who wrote that message and killed those elves?" Gimli asked, curious.  
  
"I am certain," Legolas said, "for I had a dream right before I left for Minas Tirith."  
  
As Legolas told the others of his dream, Gandalf's face showed his first reaction. He seemed excited, and when Legolas had finished, the wizard immediately turned to him.  
  
"If you have another dream, tell me about it immediately," he said. "Even if you think it is not important."  
  
Legolas promised that he would, and Gandalf seemed lost deep in thought.  
  
"A message written in blood..." Frodo cut off as a shudder ran through his body.  
  
"And with our names on it!" Sam exclaimed. "That's the part I don't like!"  
  
"I was hoping it was just an accident that we ran into that thing!" Merry added. "To think that it's actually out there somewhere, hunting us..."  
  
"I don't think we should be talking about it." Pippin's voice was a little higher than normal. "Besides, I don't think that thing will dare come close again. Not with Gandalf here."  
  
"That's right, we're perfectly safe now that you're here, right Gandalf?" All four hobbits looked to Gandalf for his answer.  
  
"Of course," Gandalf said quietly, and the hobbits all relaxed. Legolas and Gimli, however, had not missed the slight hesitation in the wizard's words, and they now exchanged glances. They did not have long to ponder this, however, for Gandalf rose. "It seems the storm has worn itself out, just as you said it would, Legolas. We will be departing soon."  
  
The guards rose and headed for the horses, and the hobbits began to repack the supplies. Legolas and Gimli followed the guards, talking quietly between themselves. Gandalf caught Aragorn's eye and motioned the man over to him.  
  
"What are your plans?" Aragorn asked softly.  
  
The wizard glanced around him and sighed. We will stop once more at dusk, to light our torches, and then we will travel on through the night. It is my hope to reach Minas Tirith as early as possible the day after tomorrow."  
  
"I will be glad when we arrive," Aragorn said tiredly, then turned to go and help the others prepare for the journey.  
  
Gandalf remained standing, peering into the surrounding trees. "If we arrive," he said softly, "I too shall be very happy. Very happy indeed!" 


	8. Road to Minas Tirith

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Fellowship is reuniting, but may face a new threat that is hunting them all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok. There

_Authors note: Ok. There is a lot of gloom and depression at the beginning of this chapter, but don't worry, they get over it!_  
  
Legolas felt a strange sadness and longing pass through him as the little company exited the stand of trees that had been their shelter from the storm. The afternoon sun had finally managed to push its way through the clouds, and now its light was dazzling as it was caught and reflected from the thousands of drops of water that hung from the trees and clung to the grass. A stillness and silence that could only come after the fierceness of a storm lay heavy over the land, muting the fall of the horse's hooves. It was as if all of nature lay in tense anticipation, waiting for the new life that would surely spring forth. The wind had died down into a soft breeze that gently brushed the faces of the company and brought a clean and fresh scent that invigorated their senses.  
  
It was the indescribable scent of the rain itself, filled with life and purity, that caused the strange stirrings of sadness within Legolas. It was a scent that reminded him of Mirkwood, his home, and he felt as if he had been gone for years, instead of less than two weeks. He could remember with clarity the afternoon spent in the woods the day he had first gazed upon the dark parchment with its evil words. He remembered the peace and contentment he had felt, with no greater worry than who he would be expected to dine with in the evening. That day now seemed ages ago, and a deep weariness settled upon him.  
  
He was worried.. Not for himself, but more for the companions around him who he had grown to care for so deeply. For the hobbits. Gentle and caring folk, whose innocent and cheerful manner brought joy to all who were around them. _'They should never have to worry about anything more than whether or not the winter snows will ruin their beloved pipe weed_ ,' Legolas thought sadly. _'Instead, they are continually forced down dark paths with uncertain endings. And yet they go with a courage that would put the greatest warriors to shame_.'  
  
For the wizard, Gandalf. A man who gave so much and received so little in return. Legolas saw the great love that Gandalf held for all of Middle Earth and its inhabitants. It was for that love that Gandalf had given over his entire life to serve and protect a people who would never know enough to properly thank him.  
  
For Aragorn. Legolas had never known a greater warrior or a man with more honor. From the time of his birth, Aragorn had been serving the people of Gondor. First as a Ranger and now as a king. He had never once thought of himself before his people. Even when given the chance to choose a different road, one less difficult and full of pain, Aragorn had never once strayed from the path set before him, and Legolas loved and respected him for it.  
  
For Gimli, whom Legolas had never expected to like, but instead grew to love and care for more than any other. Gimli, with his gruff manner that hid the great wealth of emotion the dwarf kept just beneath the surface.  
  
Legolas worried for all of them, and he could not help but wonder what would become of the company that had united that fateful day at Rivendell.  
  
Legolas shifted his position on Shandarell's back and tried to push away his dark thoughts. It was unlike him to allow himself to be swallowed by depression when such a bright and beautiful day surrounded him. He glanced behind him for one more view of the stand of trees before they were lost behind a tall hill.  
  
The entire company rode in much the same fashion as earlier that day. Gandalf led them, followed closely by Aragorn, Legolas and Gimli, and then the hobbits on their shaggy ponies. Once more, the guards brought up the rear, leading the extra animals. They rode in relative silence, except for the hobbits, who had bunched their ponies close together and were now whispering quietly.  
  
Legolas glanced to his right and slightly ahead to where Aragorn rode. The man wore a small, preoccupied frown, and his hand rested lightly on Anduril's hilt. Legolas knew that something was seriously bothering his friend. _'Perhaps he is facing the same feelings of gloom that lay heavy upon me_ ,' Legolas thought sadly.  
  
Legolas was jerked out of his thought by Gimli's soft voice. "Aragorn has not been himself of late." The dwarf was also looking towards Aragorn, and Legolas detected a hint of worry in his voice. "I do not think I have ever seen him so...... aggravated."  
  
Legolas had to agree, for he had known Aragorn longer than any of the others, save Gandalf. Aragorn was always one who managed to keep his emotion under firm control, and seeing his friend so openly disturbed was troubling him greatly.  
  
"Can we truly blame him," he replied, just as softly. "Now should be a time of great joy for him, for all of Gondor, but especially for him. Instead, he is being forced to deal with a new threat and danger when the land has not even recovered from the previous one. It is not right, and my heart grieves for him, as well as for the lady Arwen."  
  
"As does mine," Gimli sighed. "It seems to me that the things of dark and evil shall always hound and hunt the footsteps of those that stand for good and freedom. And in that, Aragorn, and indeed all of us seem to be destined to suffer. But if that is the case, than I say let them come! They will find out what the creatures of Middle Earth are really made of. Let them come and be destroyed! This is one dwarf whom you shall never find with a dull axe!"  
  
"Nor I with unstrung bow," Legolas cried, picking up on the dwarf's fervor. Aragorn turned and gave the two a questioning look, and the hobbits briefly stopped their conversation. The odd display, however, was nothing unusual for the two companions, and Aragorn soon turned back to his own thoughts, and the hobbits resumed their conversation.  
  
Gimli sighed, and all his exuberance seemed to leave, his shoulders sagging once more. "Still," he sighed, "It would be nice to be able to sit down and have a nice glass of ale or some smooth wine, without some orc or other dark creature trying to chop my head off."  
  
Legolas had finally broken free of the despair that surrounded him, and he would not let Gimli's gloomy attitude drag him back.. Clasping his hand on the dwarf's shoulder, Legolas let out a small chuckle. "If it is wine that you desire Master dwarf, then to Mirkwood you must go, for no one knows how to make better wine, or appreciate it more than my people."  
  
Gimli snorted. "First, you drag me all throughout Fanghorn, and now you wish me to go to Mirkwood with you? Last time one of my kin visited that wood, he was locked in the dungeons and barely escaped. Trouble seems able to find me well enough without me going hunting for it!"  
  
Legolas put on a tone of mock injury. "As one of my guests, I am sure that we could find somewhat more suitable lodging for you during your stay."  
  
"Hah," came Gimli's retort. "High up in a tree, most likely. I think I would prefer the dungeons."  
  
"That too, can be arranged," Legolas replied, his serious tone not hiding the twinkling mirth in his eyes. "Let us then make another agreement, as we did once before. If you will visit Mirkwood with me, then I shall go to the Lonely Mountain with you. We shall meet each other's people, and perhaps bring trade and harmony once more between our two races."  
  
Gimli nodded slowly, liking the idea. He knew that before he had met Legolas, he had believed all elves to be proud, elusive, snobs, and he had held no desire to associate with their race. He had since come to realize how wrong he was, and he desired for the rest of his people to come to the truth just as he had. "I think I should like that," he muttered, almost to himself.  
  
"Then it is agreed," Legolas stated. "When this thing is finished, you shall travel with me to Mirkwood, and then I will in turn go with you to your home, where I assume my quarters will be much like the dungeons of Mirkwood. But I will refrain from complaint."  
  
"And when I am at your home, I too shall refrain from complaint, though I shall not sleep in any trees," Gimli retorted.  
  
The two companions rode in silence for a time, but a change had come over them. They both sat taller upon Shandarell's back, and the shadow that had been upon them earlier was no longer evident.  
  
Legolas allowed his thoughts to wander, and his senses to relax, but he soon became aware of Gimli turning and straining to look past him, back down the trail they had just come. This went on for several more minutes until Legolas decided to comment on it. "If you wish, my friend, I can put you behind me and turn you to face the other direction so you will not get a crick in your neck."  
  
Gimli gave Legolas a dark look, then turned to face forward once more. "I wonder what the hobbits are discussing," he said curiously. "They have been huddled together whispering for quite some time."  
  
Legolas laughed. "Is that all that you wished to know? You should have simply asked and saved your neck the exercise. The hobbits were at first discussing what Gandalf could possibly be hiding, but have since changed the topic to whether or not he will allow a fire to cook supper when we stop for the evening. It is this subject that has occupied them for at least the last hour."  
  
Gimli shook his head ruefully. "I should have known," he muttered to himself. "But I think they may be in for a disappointment. I do not believe that Gandalf even intends on stopping for the night. He seems to be in quite a hurry to reach Minas Tirith, and it is my opinion that he will have us ride straight on through the night."  
  
"I agree," Legolas said, "but I do not think we should tell the hobbits this. Sometimes I believe they enjoy talking about their food almost as much as eating it!"  
  
"Well their talk is making me hungry," the dwarf grumbled, ignoring the fact that he could not even hear the hobbit's discussion.  
  
Legolas was opening his mouth to respond to this, when in front of them, Gandalf jerked his mount to a stop. "Legolas," the wizard called, and the urgency in his voice caused the hobbits to end their discussion and the rest of the company to sit up expectantly in their saddles.  
  
Legolas moved Shandarell up beside the wizard, who was staring intently west. Gandalf lifted his arm and pointed toward a high ridge in the distance. "What do you see?" he asked Legolas tensely.  
  
Legolas squinted in the direction the wizard was pointing, trying to see through the late afternoon shadows. Suddenly he jerked more upright, and his left hand went to one of his knives "Orcs.," he spat out disgustedly. "At least two dozen, and they are moving swiftly west."  
  
There was a gasp from behind them, and the ring of steel as blades were drawn from scabbards. Gandalf sighed heavily. "I was afraid of this," he murmured quietly, and Legolas was again struck by how weary the wizard looked.  
  
"Do we go after them?" Aragorn asked. He had ridden up beside them, his hand gripping Anduril's hilt, but his face was surprisingly calm. He looked at the wizard, and something seemed to pass between the two.  
  
"I would advise against it," Gandalf stated plainly. "It would be past nightfall when we reach them, and they have the advantage of number. Both you and Legolas are injured and I am weary. That leaves Gimli, the hobbits, and your guards to take the brunt of the battle. I do not think it would turn out well."  
  
Aragorn seemed surprised at Gandalf's admittance of weakness, and he searched the wizard's face for several seconds.  
  
"The choice is yours," Gandalf said quietly. "I will ride after them if it is your wish, and I will do what I can to help in any battle we may come upon."  
  
Legolas was only slightly surprised at the sudden switch of leadership, and he watched Aragorn closely as the warrior thought out his decision.  
  
"I do not like that they travel so openly, and while it is still daylight," Aragorn said quietly, with a sidelong look towards Gandalf. "However, I agree with your council, and so we will ride on."  
  
A collective sigh seemed to escape from the hobbits who had gathered close behind the little group.  
  
"When we reach Minas Tirith, we will hold council and learn what it is that hunts us and dares bring orcs back into Gondor. Then we shall decide what to do." Aragorn turned, and Legolas saw a new light on the warrior's face. Aragorn smiled at him. "There will be plenty of time to hunt orcs after."  
  
Legolas returned the smile, and a thrill of joy ran through him. The old Aragorn was back.  
  
Watching the exchange, Gandalf allowed a small smile of his own. Whatever danger there was to face, there was no other company the old wizard would have preferred more.  
  
Aragorn turned back to Gandalf. "We shall stop again shortly to light our torches and allow a brief supper." Another collective sigh, this one much different in tone came from behind them. Aragorn smiled and continued, " I do not expect to stop again except for brief rests for the horses. I am most anxious to reach Minas Tirith." Gandalf merely nodded, content to allow Aragorn to take the lead.  
  
"Legolas," Aragorn turned to the elf. "I would ask that you ride by my side tonight, and keep your senses open for any signs of trouble. I have no intention of allowing ourselves to stumble onto another band of orcs, and I will not be taken off guard by a surprise attack."  
  
Legolas simply nodded, already alert for any warning of danger his senses may send him.  
  
  
  
"Then let us be on our way."  
  
............................................................................   
  
Faramir stood silent and still upon the great walls of Minas Tirith, letting the wind from the east catch at his cloak and whip it about him. His eyes were intently searching the rolling hills that ran up towards the giant city, looking for any signs of movement. It had been almost four days since Legolas had ridden from the city, and Faramir was anxious for any news or sign of the return of his king.  
  
So intent was Faramir in his search, that he failed to notice that he was no longer alone. When a voice spoke quietly at his side, he nearly jumped out of his skin, his hand flying to his knife before he realized who his visitor was.  
  
"Forgive me, Lady Arwen, but you startled me," Faramir admitted a bit ruefully. He immediately removed his hand from the hilt of his dagger and gave a deep bow.  
  
"No harm was done," Arwen assured him quietly, smiling to put him at ease.  
  
"The morning is very cold, my lady, and I cannot help but wonder what has brought you to this lonely wall."  
  
"It is not so cold," Arwen responded with a far away look, "And I suppose I am on this wall for the very same reason that you are."  
  
Faramir could think of nothing to say in response, and so he turned back to studying the land. A peacefulness lay over the city and the surrounding hills, mocking his own inner turmoil. Faramir had considered taking a group of soldiers and riding out in search of Aragorn himself, but had finally decided against it. Now, however, he was seriously reconsidering. He was a man of action, and the sitting around and waiting was beginning to drive him mad.  
  
Pushing aside his restless feelings, Faramir turned once more to Arwen. "I suppose this is very hard for you, my lady," he said gently. "being parted from the one you love and not knowing whether he is in danger or not; and yet you remain so calm. I do not know how you do it."  
  
Arwen turned to him, and there was a sadness in her eyes that made Faramir's heart lurch. "Being parted is nothing new to Aragorn and I. His duties and my own have often forced us down separate paths. Neither is danger anything new. I am confident that he shall return soon."  
  
Faramir was touched by the sadness in Arwen's voice, and he strove to cheer the beautiful elf. "Soon you will not have to worry about partings, for you and Aragorn will be wed and you will be queen of all Gondor."  
  
Arwen smiled, but her face did not lose its sadness. "Yes," she said softly, "long have I waited and longed for that day, and perhaps now I will be forced to wait a bit longer." Her voice held such longing and sorrow that Faramir felt an overwhelming urge to comfort her somehow, but he did not know how.  
  
" i gaearon uin naer avad u celon," Arwen whispered softly, staring out over the wall. Suddenly she straightened, and leaned forward, her eyes intense. Faramir whirled and looked in the direction she was staring, but he could see nothing. Several minutes of tense silence followed, and then Arwen seemed to relax. A joyful smile filled her face as she turned to Faramir. "They are coming," she said softly, then turned and walked gracefully from the wall.  
  
Faramir turned back and stared over the wall. He thought he discerned movement still far away, but there was no way to be sure. Deciding to trust to the excellent eyesight of elves, he turned and left the wall as well, preparing to go and greet his king.  
  
_translation of elvish--The oceans of sadness refuse no river_


	9. Questions and Answers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Fellowship is reuniting, but may face a new threat that is hunting them all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here is chapter nine, and its a long one! Just a

_Author’s note: Here is chapter nine, and it’s a long one! Just a friendly reminder, this story is a rather dark Pg-13 from here on out. (I suggest not eating anything while reading part 2) : )_  
  
The sun was in its midmorning position when the weary and travel worn company passed beneath the first gate into Minas Tirith. Aragorn rode at the front, and was greeted reverently by the guards at the gate. Beyond, the city streets were already bustling with the morning activities. Hawkers cried their wares, and children ran screaming and playing throughout the streets. The atmosphere was bright and warm, and the small company found themselves able to relax for the first time in several days.  
  
As it became aware to the thronging people who exactly it was that rode in their midst, they began calling out and several began to cheer, as if the king had been gone for months instead of just over a week. An old shopkeeper, hearing the noise, ventured from her shop and peered about, trying to make out what was going on. “What’s all this commotion about?” she hollered to no one in particular. “Are we under attack?”  
  
Another young woman near by smiled kindly at the woman and shook her head. “No grandmother, we are not under attack; the king and his company have just returned.”  
  
The old woman turned and squinted at the second woman, then turned back to staring at the street where Aragorn had just passed. “Returned?” she mumbled. “He was gone?”  
  
“Yes,” the young woman replied once more. “He rode south over a week ago, and now he has returned. And Mithrandir rides with him.”  
  
“Mithrandir!” the old woman yelped, stepping back as if she had just heard a curse. “What ill tidings does he bring Minas Tirith this time?”  
  
“You are wrong, grandmother. I am sure he is here only for the wedding. Our king has invited all his old companions. See, there are the hobbits, great warriors of their race. And there are the dwarf and elf seen riding beside the king during the war. It is said they are both princes of their own people! They have all come to see our king wed.”  
  
The objects of the women’s discussion had since passed out of sight beneath the arch of the second gate, and now began the last ascent up into the heart of the city. The safe arrival at the city was met by a different reaction from each member of the company.  
  
Aragorn felt himself relax, the tension easing from his frame. He sat up tall in his saddle, nodding regally to the people who called out to him, and saluting the guards who stood at attention before him. He could almost forget the weight of problems that had settled upon him as a thrill of joy coursed through him at returning home. He knew that those problems would soon need to be faced and dealt with, but for the moment, he was content to relax for the first time in several days. His gaze was set forward, toward the castle, where he knew Arwen would be waiting for him.  
  
Beside Aragorn, Gandalf also seemed to have relaxed. The wizard was somewhat surprised that the company had reached Minas Tirith without incident, but he was also extremely grateful. It seemed that luck had traveled with them, and Gandalf was unsure how much more ‘luck’ the company could expect to have before all was finished. Now, he was content to ease his vigilance and allow his mind some greatly needed rest.  
  
Gimli was thinking of nothing more than his great desire to be off the horse and on his own two feet once more. The company had ridden almost nonstop the past two days and nights, and Gimli did not think he would ever be able to walk straight again. The closer the party came to its destination the more restless the dwarf became, shifting uncomfortably on Shandarell’s back in his eagerness to reach their destination.  
  
As for Legolas, he might have been more aware of the dwarfs’ discomfort, but at the moment, he was trying to stifle a yawn; his third since entering the city. He remembered his ascent up this very road a week earlier, and he desperately hoped this stay would be longer than the previous one. He needed the rest badly, loathe to admit it as he was. Elves did not require as much sleep as other races, but Legolas knew he was fast reaching the end of his endurance. He could not remember the last time he had slept peacefully, indeed he could not remember the last time he had had the luxury of sleeping at all. Just the thought of sleep caused yet another yawn to pull at his face, and he clenched his jaws tight, his eyes burning.  
  
As for the hobbits, they were, for once, not thinking about food; at least, not entirely. Their daydreams rested more firmly on hot baths, clean clothes, then food, and finally rest.  
  
As they entered through the final gate into the courtyard of Aragorn’s home, Legolas caught sight of Faramir, waiting anxiously within. The steward’s face was grave as he took in the company’s haggard appearance. He stood at the center of the courtyard, along with several grooms who waited to take their mounts.  
  
Legolas rode to the center of the courtyard, and then slipped off Shandarell’s back. Gimli followed suit, and as the dwarf’s feet hit the ground, his knees, which were unaccustomed to the great strain of riding long distances, buckled. The dwarf nearly pitched forward onto his face, but managed to catch himself just in time. He quickly glanced toward Legolas to see if the elf had witnessed his near fall. Legolas was stroking Shandarell’s nose, seemingly completely oblivious to the dwarf.  
  
Gimli let out a soft, relieved sigh, and began to stretch his sore muscles, discovering in the process several other, more sore, areas.  
  
“I have some crème in my pack that may ease your discomfort.” Legolas was still stroking the horse, his eyes toward the approaching groom, but a smile covered his face, and there was barely disguised amusement in his voice.  
  
Gimli jerked his hand away from where he had been attempting to rub some feeling back into his backside. He glared at the elf who still did not look at him. “I’m fine,” he said stiffly, straightening his back and letting out a wince as his knees let out a loud crack.  
  
Legolas finally turned to regard him fully. He arched a smooth eyebrow, never losing his amused expression as he looked the dwarf up and down. “Perhaps I should carry you on my back, lest your legs give out and you fall flat on your face.”  
  
Gimli snorted. ‘So Legolas had seen his near fall.’ He decided to make the best of it. Straightening to his fullest height, he looked up at the tall elf. “I would take you up on your offer, my friend, but I am afraid you would fall asleep halfway to our destination. Either that, or you would somehow manage to swallow your entire face in one yawn!”  
  
Legolas looked surprised at the dwarf’s smooth comeback, then his face registered surprise as yet another yawn threatened to split his jaws open.  
  
Smirking, Gimli turned, and began walking with as much dignity as he could muster toward where Aragorn and Gandalf stood speaking to Faramir. At least, the dwarf tried to walk with dignity, but this was made difficult by the fact that his knees popped and threatened to give out on him at every step, and his legs bowed out, giving the dwarf a rather rolling gait.  
  
Legolas shook his head as he stared at the retreating form of his friend’s back. He was still fighting back the yawn, and his jaws were beginning to ache. He decided he would have to declare Gimli the victor in this particular sparring match, at least, for the time being.  
  
The groom had reached Legolas’s side and was looking Shandarell up and down, as if uncertain how to handle the horse. For his part, Shandarell eyed the groom just as mistrustfully. Legolas spoke quietly to him, and after a slight hesitation the great horse followed the man toward the stables.  
  
Legolas walked over to Aragorn, Gandalf, Gimli, and Faramir, arriving at the same time as the hobbits. Aragorn addressed them all, “ I have just suggested to Gandalf that we each take some time to rest and refresh ourselves before holding our council, and he has agreed. We have arrived safely, despite everything, and we are all tired.” Aragorn smiled toward Legolas, and the elf flushed slightly, wondering if everyone had noticed him yawning. From the grins on all their faces, Gimli’s the biggest, he suspected they had. “We will meet again when the bell rings, at the changing of the watch,” Aragorn told them, as they prepared to retire to their rooms.  
  
  
  
After the others had left the courtyard, Aragorn turned to Faramir. “We have much to discuss, and I would like to hear what has happened in the city during my absence if you can spare the time.”  
  
Faramir bowed low. “Of course, my lord,” he said. “I, too, am eager to hear of what has befallen you, but would you not prefer to rest and refresh yourself along with the others?”  
  
“There will be time to rest later,” Aragorn stated firmly. “I must contact the families of my fallen guards, and then I will talk with you about……” Aragorn’s voice trailed off, for at that moment, Arwen entered the courtyard and began walking towards them.  
  
Faramir smiled and quietly left the courtyard, giving the reunion between Aragorn and his soon to be bride some privacy.  
  
***  
  
‘It feels good to be clean at last,’ Legolas thought contentedly as he toweled off his wet hair with a dry cloth. ‘Almost as good as a little nap would feel.’  
  
He glanced toward the bed at the center of the room, and let out a wistful sigh. He knew that he still had a couple of hours before the noon bell rang, and he wanted nothing more than to sink down upon the bed and let his tired mind rest. He moved over to the bed and sank down on the edge. ‘There are other, more productive things I could be doing with this time,’ he told himself firmly, even as he allowed his head to fall back onto the pillow.  
  
Legolas was not sure how long he had slept, when a soft knock on the door caused him to groan and struggle into wakefulness.  
  
“Come in,” he called wearily, sitting up and struggling to free his mind from sleep. His brief rest seemed to have merely served to accentuate his exhaustions.  
  
The door opened, and Legolas was surprised when Arwen entered. He smiled at the elf princess and she returned the smile with one of her own. “I hope I am not disturbing you?” she asked, glancing towards the bed he had just vacated.  
  
Legolas shrugged, then laughed. “No,” he answered, “Saving me, is more like it, for I doubt I would have roused myself in time for our meeting this afternoon, and Aragorn would have some sharp words for me.  
  
Arwen laughed with him, but Legolas could tell that something was bothering her. He had known Arwen for a very long time, and considered her one of his closest friends. She had never been one who could disguise her emotions well.  
  
“I am surprised at your visit, my lady,” Legolas admitted. “I would expect you to be with Aragorn at the moment.”  
  
Arwen nodded, though she looked distracted. “Yes, I have just come from him. He is meeting with Faramir now, and I learned that you were injured and wished to come and check on you.”  
  
Legolas shrugged. “My wounds are not that great, my lady, and are even now healing. The worst is my shoulder, which will keep me from using my bow.”  
  
“Can I look at them?” Arwen asked.  
  
“Of course,” Legolas answered, allowing Arwen to remove the makeshift sling and examine his arm. Her hands were extremely gentle in their examination, and after only a couple of minutes she sat back and smiled at him.  
  
“You are right. It is healing quite nicely, and I suppose you will be using your bow again in no time. But what about your ribs, and that cut upon your arm.”  
  
“The cut is all but gone, and the ribs hardly trouble me,” Legolas answered.  
  
Arwen nodded, then seemed to be lost in her own thoughts. Legolas was content to wait for her to form her words. He knew that checking on his injuries was not the only reason Arwen had for visiting him, and now he waited to hear what was troubling the beautiful elf princess.  
  
Finally Arwen spoke once more. “I heard Aragorn tell Faramir what happened.” She paused, then looked up, meeting Legolas’s gaze with her own. Her eyes sparkled with unshed tears.  
  
Legolas stepped forward, alarmed at her grief, but Arwen raised her hand and shook her head, forestalling him before he could say or do anything. “I just came here to thank you for saving Aragorn’s life. I would be lost without him.”  
  
Arwen’s voice was soft and filled with grief, and something else - fear. Legolas’s heart went out to her. “I am sorry that this has happened now, Arwen,” Legolas said sadly. “If I could do anything to make it otherwise, I would.”  
  
“I know,” Arwen replied simply. “Evil respects no one’s schedule, does it Legolas?”  
  
“I am afraid not, my lady,” Legolas replied.  
  
There was a moment of silence, and Legolas could sense that Arwen was struggling for words. He tried to help her out a little. “Are you expecting your father and brothers to arrive soon?” He seriously hoped so, for he knew that having her family close once more would cheer Arwen better than anything he might say or do.  
  
“Yes,” Arwen replied softly. “They have already left Rivendell, but my father wishes to stop in Lorien before continuing on. He has sent a messenger saying he expects to arrive before the end of the month.”  
  
Arwen still seemed distracted and apprehensive, and Legolas sought to draw her into conversation to put her at ease. He asked her the first question that popped into his head. “Do you miss Rivendell very much?” Legolas almost kicked himself. ‘How could I have brought that up now,’ he berated himself. ‘Of course she misses Rivendell, and I have kindly reminded her of that fact.’  
  
But Arwen merely smiled up at him, as if she understood what he was thinking. “Yes, I miss Rivendell,” she replied gently. “It was my home for a very long time, and I loved it dearly. But now Minas Tirith is my home, and I have grown to love it as well.”  
  
Legolas was relieved that his careless words had not caused her distress, but when he looked at her again, tears were flowing freely down her cheeks.  
  
“Arwen,” Legolas said gently, pulling the elf down to sit beside him on the bed. “You must tell me what is upsetting you, for I feel a darkness upon your soul that does not belong there.”  
  
“I am afraid,” Arwen admitted frankly. She looked up, meeting Legolas’s eyes once more, and he could detect the fear and desperation on her face. “I am afraid,” she repeated. “I fear that despite all that he has gone through, this will be too much for Aragorn, and he will be torn from me forever.”  
  
Legolas squeezed her shoulder gently. “That will not happen, my lady, for I shall not allow it,” he stated firmly, not caring about the rashness of the statement. “I shall not leave Aragorn’s side until this thing is finished, and as long as I live, I will use everything in my power to keep him from harm.”  
  
Arwen smiled up at him through her tears, and he could feel the tension leave her shoulders. “Aragorn is lucky to have friends such as you, even as I am lucky.” She leaned forward and kissed him lightly on the cheek before rising.  
  
“Thank you for listening to me, Legolas.” She laughed lightly, wiping the last tears from her face. A new determination lit her face, and Legolas was glad to see the fear and uncertainty gone. “My father or one of my brothers are usually the ones to whom such a task falls, but I am glad you are here to listen in their stead. Your words have been a great comfort to me. Now I shall go and speak once more to Aragorn, for he and I have much to discuss.”  
  
Legolas stood staring at the door for several minutes after Arwen had left. He sighed heavily as he returned to sit upon his bed once more. All thoughts of sleep were gone. Instead he pondered the strange meeting that had just taken place. He thought of the vow he had made to Arwen, and slowly shook his head. “Not just words, Arwen,” he said softly to himself. “No matter what happens, or where we go, I intend to do everything in my power to make sure that Aragorn returns to you safely. Even if it means that I do not return at all.”  
  
His thoughts were still on this matter when, in the distance, the bell signifying the changing of the guards began to toll.  
  
***  
  
The council hall was a long, rectangular room, with a high ceiling and many windows. At one end of the room, a giant fireplace dominated much of the wall, waiting to chase off the cold night air. The hearth was dormant now, but logs lay ready for whenever it would be needed. The far end of the room opened out onto a large balcony, overlooking a spacious garden.  
  
Legolas stood at the open door leading onto the balcony, letting the sun’s rays warm him. A small smile crossed his face as he watched a mother bird feeding her nestlings, their mouths opened wide, demanding food. The garden looked so peaceful that Legolas was tempted to go and lay beneath the giant elm tree at the center of the garden. It would be so easy to allow the gentle rustling of the trees and the soft bird songs lull him into a peaceful sleep, with all troubles forgotten. But this was not to be, and his mind was unwillingly drawn back to the real purpose of this meeting.  
  
He turned and glanced down to the other end of the long room. A dozen chairs were placed in a comfortable group in front of the fireplace. Gandalf, Gimli, Frodo, Sam, Merry, Pippin, and Faramir occupied seven of the chairs. Each seemed lost completely in thought as they waited for Aragorn’s arrival.  
  
Legolas shook his head at the cloud of smoke that hovered over the group, permeating the air with the sweet smell of pipe weed. Shortly after entering the room, Gandalf had produced his pipe, and Gimli and the hobbits had quickly followed suit. Now, the hobbits were having a contest to see who could blow the largest smoke ring. They seemed to be desperately trying to forget the reason why they were here.  
  
Faramir was the only one of the group not smoking, but Legolas thought he might as well have been for the amount of smoke the man was undoubtedly inhaling. Faramir held a book in his hands, his eyes intent upon the pages. He looked the picture of relaxed calm, except that Legolas’s sharp ears had not picked up the sound of a turning page in quite some time. Legolas knew that Aragorn had requested the man’s presence at this council, but he could tell that Faramir was feeling slightly out of place.  
  
Legolas was wondering what was keeping Aragorn, and as if his thoughts had been a summons, the door at the end of the hall flew open, and Aragorn and Arwen strode into the room, side by side.  
  
Faramir jumped to his feet, and his book went crashing to the floor, causing Merry to erupt into a fit of coughing as the ring of smoke he had been about to blow caught in his throat. Sam reached over and began thumping Merry on the back as Pippin and Frodo looked on sympathetically.  
  
At Aragorn’s entrance, Gandalf had turned in his chair, but he now returned to staring at the empty fireplace. Gimli was looking towards Merry with genuine concern as the hobbit’s hacking grew worse and Pippin joined Sam in pounding on the distraught hobbit’s back.  
  
Aragorn turned to Legolas and motioned for him to join the group. Legolas sighed, and took one last deep breath of fresh air before plunging resolutely into the smoke filled room. Arwen caught his eyes, and the two shared a smile.  
  
Aragorn reached the group in front of the fire and frowned down at Merry, who was still trying to suppress wrenching coughs. “Are you all right, my friend?” he asked with concern.  
  
Merry managed to nod, though his face was beginning to turn a bright red.  
  
“I don’t suppose this means you will give up smoking?” Legolas asked hopefully.  
  
Merry was just beginning to breathe properly, but he still managed to look at Legolas as if he had suddenly sprouted two horns, all his hair had fallen out, and had just announced that the sun was green.  
  
“I didn’t think so,” Legolas muttered as he dropped into a seat next to Gimli. The dwarf turned his sympathetic gaze upon Legolas but continued to puff contentedly upon his own pipe.  
  
Aragorn sank into one of the large chairs, and Arwen sat beside him. No one questioned her presence, just as they had not questioned Faramir’s. Aragorn let out a loud sigh, easing back into his chair. “Now that we are all gathered, it is time for those answers you promised us, Gandalf,” Aragorn said as he looked toward the wizard.  
  
Aragorn was perhaps the only one of the company that didn’t appear nervous. His face was completely relaxed and he gripped Arwen’s hand lightly in his own.  
  
“Yes,” Gandalf replied, still staring into the fireplace. “I merely wonder where to begin.”  
  
“Why not start at the beginning,” Pippin volunteered, although from the tone of his voice it did not sound as if he wished the wizard to begin anywhere.  
  
Gandalf finally turned away from the fireplace to give the hobbit a tight smile. “Ahhh, my small friend, but which beginning?”  
  
At Pippin’s nonplussed look, Gandalf continued. “I could start my story when Sauron was first gaining his evil powers, for indeed it goes back that far. But if I were to start there, we would be here for several days. Instead, I will begin my tale from the battle at Cirith Gorgor.”  
  
Gimli grunted. “I remember that battle all too well.”  
  
“So do I,” Pippin added glumly. “Most of it anyway. Up until I was buried under a pile of orcs.”  
  
“That was the day of Sauron’s destruction,” Aragorn put in. A day I shall never forget for as long as I live. I wonder why you choose to begin your tale there, Gandalf?” Aragorn asked curiously.  
  
“My tale actually begins after the battle, while you were all recovering,” Gandalf gave them all a small smile. “It begins in the fortress of Cirith Gorgor itself, for it is there that I found the letters.”  
  
“What letters?” the hobbits all asked at once.  
  
Gandalf shook his head, “I am getting ahead of myself. Let me first state that at the end of the battle, after we had rescued Frodo and Sam, I chose to go into the fortress and do a little exploring.”  
  
“Exploring?” Aragorn asked, amused.  
  
Gandalf shot him a look that told him not to interrupt, and continued with his story. “As I was walking through the fortress, I sensed a great evil emanating from somewhere deep within the castle. It is very rarely that I have felt such a great force of darkness, and I knew that something remained within the fortress that was causing me to have these feelings. So I began to search through the castle in the hopes of finding and destroying whatever it was.  
  
Gandalf sat back in his chair, pulling a deep draught from his pipe and blowing it out again before he continued. “At last, I came to a small vault that was so completely rusted over I knew it had not been opened for centuries. It was from this vault that I sensed the evil emanated. However, when I opened it, I only found a pile of old manuscripts, discolored and beginning to decay.”  
  
Once more, Gandalf paused, as if lost deep in thought.  
  
“What were these parchments that they could cast such a feeling of evil?” Aragorn prompted lightly.  
  
“Mostly old records and accounts of the keep,” Gandalf replied dismissively. “But among them I found ancient letters. Letters written by the hand of the dark lord Sauron himself, when he was still human enough to do such things. These letters dated back clear to when Sauron was first rising to power and beginning to spread his evil influence. The letters were so dark and persuasive in their evilness that I had no doubt that they were the reason for many a weak kings turn to the dark lord. I was so repulsed, my first thought was to destroy the parchments immediately, and be rid of their evil.”  
  
“Let me guess? You didn’t do that, did you?” Gimli asked dryly.  
  
“You should be glad that I didn’t,” the wizard replied, “for these manuscripts hold valuable information on the creature we now face. No, I did not destroy them, instead I gave them to my friend, Landroval, brother of Gwaihir the Windlord, and greatest of all the Eagles of the North. I bid him carry them to Rivendell and deliver them to Elrond along with a letter warning him not to open or read the letters.”  
  
“I remember the day that Landroval arrived at Rivendell,” Arwen said quietly. “I also recall that my father was in quite a foul mood for the rest of the day. Elrohir and Elladan wouldn’t go near him, instead leaving me the task of trying to learn what troubled him. He never did give me a clear answer, though I guessed from what he would tell me that he was upset at something you, Mithrandir, had sent him.”  
  
Gandalf chuckled softly. “Yes, Elrond was not too happy with me. Although he took my advice and did not read the parchments, he could still sense their evilness, and he did not like it that I had sent them to Rivendell. But Elrond has forever been faithful, and he hid the letters in a safe place for me.”  
  
“Why did you never tell me about these letters?” Aragorn asked.  
  
“I believed you had enough on your mind at that particular time,” Gandalf responded. “And indeed, I soon forgot about them myself, or at least did not allow myself to dwell on them.”  
  
“But you did not forget them for long, I take it,” Aragorn responded. “That is how you learned of this creature, from reading these parchments?”  
  
“Yes,” Gandalf replied. “I read them, but not by my own desire. After we parted company, I remained in Rivendell for several months, for Elrond had matters he wished to discuss with me. He never brought up the letters, and I did not ask for them. I knew they were safe, and I intended upon dealing with them in my own time. Then, we began receiving reports of renewed orc activity in the mountains. After the war, many orcs fled to Moria, so Elrond set watch at each entrance to ensure that they remained there. These watchers reported that the orcs were becoming restless and were daring to venture further and further from the caves.”  
  
Gandalf sighed, taking another puff of his pipe. “Neither Elrond or I were extremely worried by the reports. We knew that without a leader to bring the orcs together and direct them, any uprising would be easy enough to quench. Elrond increased the strength of the watch at the entrances to the mountain, but other than that we did little else, something that I greatly regret now. It was not until a group of orcs, led by a creature that even the elves found hard to describe, broke free from the mountain, killing several elves in the process, that I realized a new threat had arisen. Though I still, at this time, did not recognize how great this threat would prove to be. It was the very same night that we received news of the orcs attack upon the elven party, that I had a dream.”  
  
Gandalf paused and looked directly at Legolas. “This dream was like no other dream I have ever had in its potency and clarity. I saw much in this dream, and when I finally awoke, I knew what I had to do.”  
  
Gandalf sighed once more and shook his head. “Unfortunately, Elrond did not agree with me. He was against me reading the letters, but when he realized he could not persuade me, he led me to their hiding place. There, I locked myself in with the parchments with strict instructions that I was not to be disturbed. Then, I began to search.”  
  
“I was forced to use a powerful spell of protection as I read the words, for even in the city of Rivendell, the letters held a great power of evil persuasion, and I feared being polluted by the words.  
  
It took me three days, but I knew immediately when I had found what I sought. I called to the guards posted outside, and they were forced to carry me from the room, for I was too weak even to stand. Even now, I still suffer from weakness, and I fear it will be quite some time before I regain my full strength. I was barely able to call forth enough power the other night to bring that light that scared away your attackers.”  
  
The others all stared at Gandalf, at last understanding the great weariness in the wizard.  
  
The wizard smiled back at them reassuringly. “I may be weak, but my powers are returning, slowly but surely. I am not completely defenseless.”  
  
Legolas nodded, finally understanding the wizard’s great hurry in returning to Minas Tirith, and also his earlier hesitation when assuring the hobbits of their safety. The wizard had been greatly weakened in rescuing them, and he had been unsure of his ability to protect them should another attack come.  
  
“But you learned what this creature is that hunts us, and where it came from?” Gimli asked.  
  
Gandalf shook his head. “It is unknown where this creature came from, or even how old he is. Even the elves have never heard of him or creatures like him. He has lived for thousands of years beneath the slopes of Barad- dur, content to remain hidden in the shadows of that evil place. At least, until now.  
  
It was Sauron himself who first discovered him and took him as his ‘pet,’ as he took all creatures of evil, such as the creature Shelob. He named him Malek and kept him beneath his fortress, for the creature intrigued him. Yet I also believe that Sauron was wary of him, for he kept him imprisoned beneath his fortress, often sending him slaves upon which to feed.”  
  
“He fed it slaves?” Sam broke in incredulously.  
  
“Yes,” Gandalf answered, “for this creature is a scavenger, surviving on death and destruction. He feeds upon the flesh of other creatures and drinks their blood to sustain and strengthen him.”  
  
“That is disgusting.” Sam looked positively sick.  
  
“I agree,” Gandalf stated.  
  
“But why has the creature chosen to come forth now? And why is he after us?” Frodo asked.  
  
“To those questions I have only my own thoughts and speculations, and no clear cut answers. Perhaps Malek finally grew tired of his imprisonment, and decided to break free, or perhaps he had grown so accustomed to Sauron providing slaves for his prey, that when the dark lord was destroyed, he was forced to go hunting for his own food. There is also the possibility that he somehow sensed that Middle Earth was weakened, and wanted to take advantage of it. I am afraid that there are a thousand possible explanations as to why he chose to come forth now.”  
  
“All right,” Frodo replied, “but that still does not answer why he is after us. Is he angry that we destroyed his master?”  
  
Gandalf snorted. “I highly doubt that Malek ever saw Sauron as his master. And I do not think he could have cared less that Sauron was destroyed. No, it is not for that reason that he hunts us.”  
  
“Then what is the reason?” Gimli asked.  
  
“Once again, I hold only my own opinions on this matter,” Gandalf warned them. “But I believe that he is after us because of what we represent.”  
  
“What we represent? Pippin repeated, obviously confused.  
  
Gandalf nodded. “We must keep in mind that the intentions of this creature are different from those of his predecessor. Sauron wished to conquer and enslave Middle Earth. I believe that this creature merely intends to destroy it and feed off its destruction. And for this purpose, he is uniting the orcs once more and drawing them to him.”  
  
There was a silence, as everyone digested the wizard’s words.  
  
“In order to weaken Middle Earth enough to overcome it,” Gandalf continued, “Malek would need to weaken its people. He must cause them to despair. And what better way to begin that despair than by destroying the heroes of the people. The very ones who are partly responsible for the destruction of the dark lord.”  
  
Aragorn nodded thoughtfully, his face remaining completely calm.  
  
“Also,” Gandalf said, “have you noticed who exactly comprises this fellowship?”  
  
The hobbits glanced around, completely confused, though a light of understanding was beginning to cross the faces of the others.  
  
Gandalf helped the hobbits out. “The main races of Middle Earth are all represented within the eight of us. Aragorn represents the race of man, as well as being king over all of Gondor. I represent and am the head of the dwindling faction of wizards; Legolas is a prince of the elves; Gimli is the son of a well-known dwarf, and you four represent the hobbits, a race which has become very well known in the last year, although they remain unaware of this fact. By destroying us, Malek will indeed have struck a great blow to all the races of Middle Earth!”  
  
The four hobbits all sighed, as they finally understood.  
  
“Well,” said Gimli. “We know who this creature is…., sort of.” He cast a glance toward Gandalf. “And we know perhaps why he is after us. I think the next question should be what we are going to do about it.”  
  
“Before we begin planning out strategies of attack, there are still things you need to know about Malek,” Gandalf interrupted.  
  
“I think we may already be aware of some of these things,” Aragorn commented dryly. “Such as his ability to freeze you where you stand.”  
  
“Yes,” Gandalf mused thoughtfully. “However, you have all faced this and survived, and I do not think he will be able to so easily entrap you a second time, as long as we all remain alert and wary.”  
  
“This is true,” Aragorn added. “When I fought him, he tried to use this trap on me a second time and was unable to. Just avoid looking directly at him, and remain wary, as Gandalf said.”  
  
Legolas frowned slightly. He was the only one of the group besides Faramir and Arwen that had not faced Malek’s freezing stare. He remembered his dream, and wondered if that counted. He somehow doubted it. He would just have to remain extra careful and watchful as Aragorn and Gandalf had suggested. Gandalf was continuing, and Legolas forced his attention back onto the wizard’s words.  
  
“There is another important thing you must know about this creature,” the wizard was saying, but then he paused and frowned, as if trying to find the best way to put into words what was on his mind. At last he merely shrugged and forged on. “Malek is a shape changer, and can take on the shape of any creature for a certain period of time. When you all first encountered him, he was in the shape of an elf, probably in an attempt to throw you off your guard.  
  
“Shape changer!” All four hobbits cried at once, sitting forward in their chairs. Legolas was almost as surprised as they were. He was uncertain what he had been expecting, but it most certainly was not this. Beside him, Gimli let out a low curse, and Aragorn showed his first reaction, a deep frown.  
  
“How then, are we ever supposed to find him and destroy him?” Pippin wailed. “He could be anywhere, disguised as anything. He could even be in this city right now, waiting to murder us in our beds, and no one would know it!”  
  
“Do not despair yet, Pippin,” Gandalf said gently. “However it may sound, Malek’s power is not invincible. It is difficult for him to do this thing, and he cannot keep the disguise up very long. There are also ways in which to see through his pretenses, such as his eyes. He can never disguise the blackness and evilness of his eyes. And there are also other ways to see through any mask he may put on. You must only remain watchful. And as for him sneaking in and murdering you in your bed, I do not think he will dare enter the city. Malek does not like crowds, for the more people about, the easier it is to see through his disguises. Nor do I think he will enter at night, for the streets are kept well lit, and Malek hates the light.”  
  
Gandalf paused, and let out a sigh. “And this brings me to my last point, which may well be the most important.  
  
Pippin’s sigh sounded much like Gandalf’s. “I do not think I am going to like this,” the hobbit said wearily.  
  
“Malek has lived for perhaps millions of years,” Gandalf stated quietly, staring into the empty fireplace. “If ever there was a time when he lived above the ground, it is forever forgotten, even by the elves. The deep caves of Mordor have been his home until just recently. So accustomed is he to living in complete blackness, that it has become, in essence, a very part of him. The darkness wraps itself about him like a shield, making him all but impossible to kill at night.”  
  
There was a brief moment of silence, and then the council room erupted at this news. The hobbits all jumped to their feet and began shouting at once. Faramir, Legolas, and Gimli leaned forward in their chairs, faces registering shock and dismay. Even Arwen’s face had gone pale at the news. Only Aragorn remained unaffected at this news. He had been wondering when the wizard would get to this. He looked at the other members of the fellowship with sympathy, remembering all too well his own despair when Malek had healed himself right in front of him.  
  
Gandalf raised his staff, bringing order to the room once more. The hobbits sunk back into their chairs, shaking their heads in numb disbelief. “This is impossible,” Merry muttered. “Not only can this creature take on any form he wishes, it is also impossible to kill him. How do we even try to resist him?” The hobbits words were melancholic and full of despair.  
  
“Do not give up before we have even started,” Gandalf admonished gently. “I did not say that this creature was impossible to slay; I merely stated that he was nearly impossible to kill at night! The blackness within Malek, the very essence of his power, bonds with the darkness that shields him, and allows him to heal any injury he may sustain. During the day, however, is another matter. Light strips him of this shield, and makes him vulnerable. Malek hates any form of light, and though he can stand small amounts of it, daylight is too much for him. He reminds me much of the creature Gollum in this aspect. I assure you, that during the day, Malek is as easily killed as any of us.”  
  
“I wish you hadn’t used that particular comparison,” Sam moaned.  
  
Gandalf ignored him. “Our only task is to find a way to draw him out during the day, and then destroy him.”  
  
“You make it sound so easy,” Gimli mumbled sarcastically.  
  
“It will not be easy,” Gandalf replied, “but it is not impossible either.”  
  
The council room was silent once more until Sam turned to Frodo. “Well, master Frodo, I was not wishing for another adventure so soon after the last, but here I am. The old Gaffer always told me that us Gamgees were destined to suffer, and now I believe him. But I feel more sorry for you. You haven’t even finished your book yet, and you’re off on another quest. I hope this one is over a bit quicker than the last, if you catch my meaning.”  
  
Frodo nodded at Sam’s words, but he seemed lost in thought. None of the hobbits noticed the glances exchanged among the other member’s of the party.  
  
Aragorn turned to the hobbits and addressed them. “Frodo, Sam, Merry, and Pippin.” He said each name gently and with great fondness. “I think that perhaps this time you should all remain at Minas Tirith and allow us to deal with this creature Malek.”  
  
“We would think no less of you if you did,” Legolas put in. “Already you have all done more than your share for Middle Earth. Why don’t you remain here. We will take care of what needs to be done.”  
  
Gimli nodded, but Frodo was already shaking his head. “I thank you for the offer, but I am still a member of this Fellowhsip, and as a member, and a friend, I cannot allow you to leave me out of this.”  
  
“Besides,” Pippin stated firmly. “I seem to recall Legolas mentioning our names as being on that list found in Mirkwood along with all of you. If this creature, Malteck, or whatever, wants to mess with one of us, he will have to get through all of us to do it!”  
  
Everyone stared at Pippin in amazement, even the other hobbits, and the young Took soon blushed fiercely under their scrutiny. Aragorn laughed softly, eying Pippin with a new respect. “I think we shall make a warrior out of you yet, my young friend. Very well, I will make no further attempts to persuade you to stay behind.”  
  
Pippin looked extremely proud under the compliment, and his face grew even redder if it were possible. Merry pounded him proudly on the back.  
  
“What do we do now?” Faramir spoke up for the first time. “How do we find this Malek creature? You said that he was building an army of orcs. Do you suppose he intends to attack the city?”  
  
Gandalf shook his head. “I do not think he is that bold yet. No, he will attempt to draw us to him. We must be ready for him when he does.”  
  
Gandalf turned to Aragorn. “How large a force can you muster as swiftly as possible?”  
  
Aragorn looked to Faramir, and the Steward answered right away. “Right now, the only soldiers within Minas Tirith are the city guards, but give me two days and I can have a force over fifteen hundred strong. Give me a week, and I will have the whole force of Gondor ready to march.”  
  
Gandalf nodded, pleased. “Gather as many as you can, as fast as you can. I do not know yet when we shall march from the city, but I wish to have a sizable force when we do. I am not certain how many orcs Malek has managed to unite, but we must be prepared for anything.  
  
Faramir rose after a quick nod from Aragorn, and swiftly strode from the room. Aragorn and Arwen also rose and faced Gandalf. “There is still much yet to be done, and the hour is late,” Aragorn said, glancing out the window at the sun sitting heavily upon the horizon. “I must bid you all a goodnight, and I hope to see you in the morning at my breakfast table.” He bowed low to the group, and then he and Arwen also exited.  
  
Gandalf sighed and rose as well, stretching much like a cat. “He turned and regarded Legolas, Gimli, and the hobbits. “I suggest you take all opportunities offered to you to rest. I do not know when we will be forced into battle once more, and we must all be prepared. Rest, and heal,” Gandalf said, looking directly at Legolas. “I, too, must bid you goodnight. Sleep well!” the wizard called as he strode out the door.  
  
“He did not just tell us to sleep well,” Sam muttered under his breath. “There is no way he could have just told us to sleep well.”  
  
“I don’t think I will ever sleep well again,” Merry commented sadly.  
  
“Me either,” moaned Pippin. “And I don’t look forward to returning to my own room either.”  
  
“Then why not remain here?” Legolas suggested. “We can keep each other company, perhaps sing a few songs, and drive away the coldness from our hearts.”  
  
The hobbits and Gimli immediately jumped on this idea, and the hobbits suggested that they call servants to bring them food and wine. Legolas built a fire upon the hearth to warm the room against the approaching night and they all settled comfortably in the large chairs. The hobbits begged Legolas to sing the song that he had sung back in the copse of trees two days before, but Legolas shook his head. “The songs of the elves are sad and mournful, and right now our hearts need cheer. I hear the hobbits have many such songs, so why not sing to me for a change.”  
  
“All right,” Frodo agreed, “but I warn you, our voices are not nearly as fair as yours.” And so the hobbits began to sing a song about an old widow who tried to find husbands for her three more-than-plain daughters. The song was a joyous one, and soon all the hobbits were dancing and clapping to the melody, taking turns singing the verses.  
  
“So send her home, Molly  
  
Send her home.  
  
So send your daughter home!”  
  
Pippin sang out in a high tenor, and Merry joined him on the chorus.  
  
“She cannot cook  
  
She cannot sew,  
  
She cannot clean,  
  
Or hold a hoe,  
  
She looks as plain as batted dough!  
  
So send her home, Molly  
  
Send her home.  
  
So send your daughter home!”  
  
Legolas and Gimli laughed, as they watched the hobbit’s merriment, and the cold shadow of gloom quickly fled the room.  
  
Outside, the sun slipped completely from view, an unnatural darkness settling over the horizon.  
  
Part 2  
  
To the West of Minas Tirith, deep in the shadowy caves of Ered Nimrais, a large force of orcs were gathered, waiting for the darkness of night. Here and there, a weak torch cast flickering light about the cave, revealing the grotesque faces of the orcs.  
  
On one end of the cave, no torches burned, and blackness deeper than night obscured everything. The orcs stayed well clear of this area, and if any errand drove them close, they crept forward timidly, peering into the darkness warily.  
  
Malek sat deep within these shadows, watching his army closely. Near him, seven orc captains crouched in the darkness, their eyes never leaving the spot where Malek sat. He knew that they could not see him, for he blended into the darkness until he was nothing more than a shadow. But they still knew where he sat. His evilness was a tangible beacon. The smell of their fear and hatred filled Malek’s nose, and he breathed deeply, a small smile forming on his lips. These seven were the largest and strongest of his army, a remnant of the Urukai, and they knew well the price of failing him.  
  
A small scratching sound at his feet caused him to glance down casually. What had once been his eighth captain now lay in a pool of blood, his body convulsing weakly in the throes of death, a boot rubbing against the cold stone floor. Even as Malek watched, the creature’s convulsions ceased, and he stared fixedly up at Malek, a look of horror forever etched upon his face.  
  
Casually, Malek removed his claws from the orc’s lungs, then bent his head and began to feed. The smell of fear grew even stronger, for even though the orc captains could not see, they could still hear the sound of Malek eating.  
  
Malek did not especially enjoy orc blood. He much preferred human, and during his brief trip through Mirkwood, he had acquired a great love for elf blood, as well. He had never tasted dwarf blood or hobbit, but he expected to remedy that soon. Just the thought of this caused a vicious smile to warp his twisted features.  
  
The fellowship had managed to escape him once, but Malek did not intend to allow it to happen a second time. Hatred flared through him, and he flexed his claws, tearing into the flesh of the dead orc.  
  
He had been too easy on them earlier, and he was actually glad that they had escaped. Next time, Malek intended to see them all suffer. They would provide hours of entertainment for him and his army before he let them die, and their screams would be music to his ears. Then he would feed off their corpses, and the strength he would gain would be unstoppable.  
  
Just the thought of fresh, sweet elf blood, caused Malek to roughly push away the orcs carcass and lift his head, sniffing the air in the cave. He rose and stepped forward, out of the deep shadows, and the seven orc captains rose with him.  
  
Turning to the nearest one, Malek hissed out his question. “Is there a town nearby?”  
  
The orc bowed low, fear radiating off him like steam from a doused fire. “Yes, my master. There is a large town not far south from here.”  
  
“Gather a small force,” Malek ordered. “We march tonight.”  
  
The orc bowed low, a gleam of anticipation in his eyes, before he hurried to do his master’s bidding.  
  
Malek turned his gaze almost directly east, toward the city of Minas Tirith. “I will draw you out of your little stone city. I will draw you to me, and when you arrive…” Malek did not finish his sentence, but as he turned back to his captains, the look of raw hunger and desire on his face caused them to cower away in fear.  
  
***  
  
Legolas jerked awake, his left arm flying to his knife. He was on his feet in a flash, blade drawn, and breath coming in short gasps. It took his sleep-fogged brain a couple of seconds to discern reality from the remnants of the dream still clinging to his mind. But when he did, he sank back to the floor, letting his head fall into his hands, trying to control his harsh breathing.  
  
Gimli and the four hobbits lay sprawled in various positions in front of the fireplace, their loud snores filling the long hall. The fire had died down to embers that glowed eerily in the dark room.  
  
Legolas tried desperately to still his breathing and erase the dream from his mind, but it was useless. At last, he gave up and rose to his feet, picking his way carefully around the sleeping forms of his friends and heading toward the balcony and the garden beyond.  
  
He needed some fresh air badly, and he seriously doubted he would get much more sleep this night, despite his weariness. He didn’t even want to try. A deep shudder ran through his body, and when he ran a hand through his long golden hair, he noticed that it was shaking.  
  
Legolas reached the balcony and swung over the edge to drop lightly to the garden below. A brief spurt of pain ran through his ribs, but he ignored it and began walking along the garden paths, taking deep, even breaths.  
  
He did not want to think about his dream, or what it might mean. Instead, he tried to focus upon the sweet scents of the garden and clear his mind of any thought.  
  
He was so intent upon not thinking, that he walked right past Gandalf, sitting upon a narrow stone bench, and didn’t even notice until the wizard stood and called a greeting.  
  
Legolas whirled, drawing his knife once more, until he realized whom it was he faced. Then he sighed and sheathed his blade.  
  
Gandalf frowned, noticing the elf’s pale features, and slightly shaking hands. “What happened,” he asked worriedly, thinking that something dreadful must have transpired to cause the elf’s distress.  
  
Legolas’s face immediately became guarded, and he shook his head, feigning confusion. “Nothing has happened,” he replied casually. “I merely wished to take an evening walk through the gardens. What brings you out here so late?”  
  
“I could not sleep, and came here to compose my thoughts,” the wizard answered, eyeing Legolas shrewdly. It was obvious that something was bothering the elf, and that he was trying to keep the wizard from noticing, for he would not meet Gandalf’s eyes. A sudden thought hit the wizard, and he narrowed his eyes, studying Legolas. “Did you have another dream,” he asked intently, and immediately knew the answer from the look on Legolas’s face.  
  
“Does it deal with Malek?” Gandalf asked, taking a step closer to Legolas.  
  
The elf shrugged, still not meeting his eyes. “It is nothing,” he said dismissively. “Merely a nightmare brought on by our earlier discussion, I’m sure.”  
  
Gandalf frowned deeply. “I do not think elves have nightmares very easily. If this dream deals with Malek, you must tell me, as you promised you would. I do not understand the nature of these dreams, but they seem to be a warning of sort, as to what is to come, and they should not be ignored.”  
  
Legolas sighed and finally faced the wizard. “I still think it is nothing more than a nightmare brought on by dark thoughts.”  
  
“Then tell me of it, and I will decide if I agree,” Gandalf stated firmly.  
  
Legolas hesitated for a second longer, then dropped his eyes to the garden path. “I dreamt of my death,” he said quietly, then raised his eyes to meet Gandalf’s once more. “It was not….pretty,” he added, even softer.  
  
Gandalf felt as if his stomach had sunk to his knees, but he kept his face carefully expressionless. Reaching out, he took the elf by the arm and drew him toward the bench he had just vacated.  
  
“Tell me,” was all he said. 


	10. Dangerous Games

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Fellowship is reuniting, but may face a new threat that is hunting them all.

The city of Minas Tirith lay silent and still, veiled in an early morning fog  
that crept and drifted through the mostly deserted streets.  A slight  
lightening of the eastern sky was the only sign of approaching dawn, and the  
chill of evening still hung heavy upon the land.  The bright lanterns that  
hung from poles spaced evenly along the streets gutted and flickered as the fog  
danced and swirled just out of reach of the flame.  A lone dog drifted  
through the streets, sniffing in dark alleyways for any refuse left behind by  
the previous days activities.  
  
Looking down upon the sprawling city, the tall towers of the citadel rose  
majestically against the backdrop of the mountains; their proud tips untouched  
by the fog that lay thick at their base.  As the sun inched higher up the  
sky, its first rays were caught and reflected by the tall towers and they shone  
magnificently, a star somehow transported to earth.  Deep within the  
citadel, a bell began to toll, signaling the rising of the sun and bidding the  
people of Minas Tirith to rise and begin the new day.  
  
Aragorn stood tall upon the high wall surrounding the citadel, listening to the  
bell's cheerful ring and breathing deeply of the morning freshness, allowing  
the cool breeze to catch his cloak and flap it about him.  He had been up  
for several hours, his troubled thoughts driving him from his bed and out onto  
the silent wall.  He had always found it easier to collect his thoughts  
out in the open air.  Most likely a trait stemming from his time as a  
ranger, when most nights were spent beneath the stars, and the warmth and  
comfort of a bed were rare things indeed.  There was something about early  
morning, before the sun rose, that had always attracted him - from the time he  
was a small child dreaming of adventure, to when he was a grown man living out  
those adventures.  The dawn held a sort of peaceful promise for Aragorn, a  
sign that the darkness of night would not last forever - in Middle Earth, and  
in his own life.  No matter what trials he had faced, Aragorn had always  
been able to find new hope at the coming of dawn, just as he now found hope  
against the troubles that Gondor faced.  
  
Sighing contentedly, Aragorn looked down into the freshly stirring city.   
Five days had passed since the company had rode through the gates into Minas  
Tirith, and those days had been spent resting and recovering, as well as  
preparing for the battle they knew would come eventually.  True to his  
word, Faramir had already managed to gather a great many of Gondor's soldiers,  
as well as organize them and prepare them to march as soon as Aragorn gave the  
order.  Aragorn had long been aware of the abilities of his Steward, and  
yet even he had been somewhat surprised by Faramir's quick efficiency.   
Aragorn had offered to help Faramir in gathering in the disbanded soldiers, and  
Faramir had accepted.  However, Aragorn had quickly come to realize that his  
help was not needed, and Faramir had only accepted the offer in the first place  
as a matter of courtesy.  The soldiers responded immediately and without  
question to every request Faramir made, a sign of the complete trust and love  
they held for the man who had led them on many a campaign.  Aragorn had  
wondered if the men would have responded as well to him.  Faramir insisted  
they would, but Aragorn was not sure.  In any case, Aragorn was allowed to  
leave the raising of the army in Faramir's more than capable hands, while he  
dealt with other issues needed seeing to.  
  
Aragorn turned on the wall and faced west, away from the slowly rising  
sun.  A great shadow still hung heavy over this part of the land, and it  
would be several hours before the sun rose high enough to drive it away  
completely.  Aragorn scanned the dark horizons, feeling once more the  
sense of tense expectancy that had drove him from his bed earlier.  It was  
the feeling he usually associated before a big storm hit, and yet the early  
morning sky was clear of any cloud, and already the air was beginning to  
warm.  No, it was not an approaching storm that caused these feelings of  
anticipation; instead the feeling seemed to stem from the very air  
itself.   Though there had been plenty to keep him busy the last few  
days, Aragorn had begun to grow restless from the constant waiting.  Now,  
it seemed as if something was about to happen, and he unconsciously  
straightened, his hand resting on Anduril's hilt, as a wave of anticipation  
passed through him.  As a ranger, he had been forced to learn patience at  
an early age, and waiting was no stranger to him.  Yet he still preferred  
action and couldn't help but hope that his intuition was right, and that the  
waiting was drawing to an end.  
  
Gandalf had insisted that Malek would make his location known all too  
soon.  He kept reminding the fellowship that Malek wanted to be found,  
that he wanted them to come after him, and that they must be prepared when that  
time came.  "Well, I am as prepared now as I am likely to ever  
be."  Aragorn said quietly, out loud.  He was still facing west,  
and it seemed as if the tingle in the air was coming from that direction, from  
the deep shadows and recesses of the Ered Nimrais.  'Is that where you  
hide, evil creature?' Aragorn thought.  'Are you waiting for us deep  
within those mountains?  If so, we shall not keep you waiting much longer,  
and you shall regret the day you ever crawled from your dark hole!'  
  
Sensing someone approaching, Aragorn turned, a smile softening his features as  
he watched Arwen mount the steps up to the wall and begin walking towards  
him.  The elf princess looked radiant in a light green gown bound at the  
waist with a loose silver belt, its links crafted skillfully in the shape of  
leaves.  A dark green cloak of soft velvet hung from her shoulders,  
clasped by another silver leaf, the very same that Aragorn had received from  
Galadrial in Lothlorien.  Her long dark hair fell unbound around her  
shoulders and down to her waist, waving slightly in the early morning breeze.  
  
Aragorn found his breath catching as he watched her graceful movement, and a  
love so strong it threatened to choke him swept through him.  The morning  
suddenly seemed much brighter, the bird songs clearer, and Aragorn thought he  
would surely die if he had to tear his eyes from her.  Suddenly, his  
earlier anticipation fled, replaced with the knowledge that he would soon be  
forced to part with her once more.  Stepping forward to meet her, he  
reached out and pulled her almost desperately into his arms.  "Arwen,  
my love...," he whispered, then found himself unable to go on.   
Perhaps Gimli had been right about love making a man weak, yet at that moment  
Aragorn cared about nothing except holding Arwen.  
  
As if sensing the sudden change in Aragorn's mood, Arwen said nothing, allowing  
Aragorn to merely hold her in his arms.  She laid her head against his  
chest, closing her eyes and listening to the steady beat of his heart and the  
rhythmic sound of his breathing.  His hand gently stroked her hair, and  
the two stood like this for several long minutes, content to merely be held  
close to each other.  At last, Arwen pulled back slightly, looking up into  
Aragorn's face.  "Something troubles you, Elven Star, and I would  
know what it is, that I may help ease your mind.  The guards tell me that  
you have been standing on this wall, staring west for several hours."  
  
Aragorn smiled down at her gently, and then shook his head.  "Nothing  
can trouble me as long as I have you at my side, Arwen, daughter of  
Elrond."  
  
Arwen returned the smile, and laughed lightly, the sound causing Aragorn's  
heart to beat more swiftly.  "Is this an attempt at poetry, my  
love?" she asked mischievously.  
  
"I have been here since very early," Aragorn replied seriously.   
"I have seen the sun's first rays captured like a thousand sparkling  
jewels atop the towers of this city.  I have seen the morning flowers open  
to welcome the day, and the birds awaken and take song.  Yet all of this  
is dim and misty in the wake of your great beauty, my lady."  
  
Arwen laughed once more.  "I see that I am right.  Yet my heart  
has never responded to another's words as it does yours now.  You may  
speak poetry to me all day, and I would be happy."  
  
"Yes," Aragorn answered, "but if I were to speak poetry all day,  
I would not be able to do this.."  He bent down and kissed her  
gently.  
  
When Aragorn at last drew away, both their hearts were beating fast, and a  
slight flush colored Arwen's smooth cheeks.  "You seek to distract  
me, my lord," she said breathlessly.  "I came here to ask if you  
would care to walk with me that we may enjoy the morning together."  
  
"Of course," Aragorn answered immediately.  Still clasping Arwen  
close to his side, he turned and descended from the wall, not noticing the  
smiles and winks that passed between the guards upon the wall.  
  
The entire city had been shocked and dismayed at the announcement that  
Aragorn’s wedding was postponed, but Aragorn had made it sound as if the reason  
was due to the delayed arrival of Elrond and the party of elves from Rivendell.   
Most people were ready enough to accept this explanation; however, when the  
army had been called once more, rumors had spread like wildfire through the  
people.  Aragorn had addressed them again, explaining that orcs had been  
sighted in Gondor, and that the army was being rebanded in order to deal with  
this new development.  He was quick to assure them that Minas Tirith was  
under no danger of attack, and that the army would be riding out to destroy the  
orcs as soon as everything could be arranged.  Once more, the people had  
been more than willing to accept this simple explanation.  Aragorn had  
also sent several messengers North, towards Lothlorien, in the hopes that they  
would come upon Elrond's party.  He was sure that the elves would not  
arrive until well after he himself had departed, but he wanted Elrond to be  
forewarned of what he would find at Minas Tirith.  
  
Thoughts of his departure fell heavy upon Aragorn once more, and he gripped  
Arwen’s hand tightly in his own as the two walked.  "I will miss you  
sorely when I leave," he whispered softly.  
  
"Perhaps,” was Arwen's only answer.  Aragorn looked at her sharply,  
but she was looking away from him, her attention caught by something before  
them.  
  
Aragorn followed her gaze to the practice archery field.  Legolas stood at  
one end of the field, facing the row of targets at the other end.  The elf  
seemed to be totally relaxed, his back turned to them and his bow resting  
lightly against the ground, one arm fallen limply at his side.  Aragorn  
sighed as he took in his friend, his troubles returning to pile up on him once  
more.  Aragorn was worried about Legolas.  During the past five days,  
it appeared as if Legolas was recovering nicely from his injuries, even as  
Aragorn was recovering from his own, and yet Aragorn believed that the elf had  
not been sleeping properly.  He had paid little attention to this at  
first, knowing that elves needed much less rest than other races.   
However, his concern had been growing.  It was obvious that Legolas was  
hiding something from the rest of them, and twice Aragorn had caught Gandalf  
and Legolas secreted away, the looks on their faces revealing that their  
conversation was not pleasant.  Yet every time Aragorn drew near, the two  
would immediately clam up or change the subject.  Aragorn knew that  
something was going on, and yet he had been prepared to wait until Legolas  
chose to tell him what it was himself.  However, Aragorn was beginning to  
wonder if he shouldn't bring it up and try to get the elf to confide in him.  
  
Arwen pulled at his arm, and Aragorn followed her toward where Legolas  
stood.  As they drew near, Legolas suddenly moved with lightning  
speed.  In a blur that was almost too fast to follow, Legolas raised his  
bow, drew an arrow from his quiver, setting it to the bow, and then releasing  
it, all in the same fluid motion.  The arrow whistled through the air  
before striking dead center in the target placed before the elf.  
  
"Nice shot, Legolas," Aragorn said from directly behind the  
elf.  Legolas turned and smiled at them, having sensed their approach long  
before, and knowing who it was before Aragorn spoke.  
  
Aragorn moved to the side of his friend, eyeing the slightly quivering arrow  
protruding from its mark at the other end of the field.  "It seems  
your arm is nearly back to a hundred percent," he commented lightly.   
"Does it still pain you any?"  
  
Legolas shrugged lightly.  "There is a slight strain when I draw  
back," he admitted, "but I expect it to fade quickly the more I  
exercise it."  
  
"You must be careful not to overdo it, Legolas," Arwen warned  
gently.  "Even elves must give their wounds plenty of time to  
heal.  If you strain it too much, you will find the healing takes that  
much longer."  
  
"I am aware of this, my lady," Legolas said seriously.   
"Yet I feel a change in the wind, and I guess that our waiting will soon  
be over.  I wish to be able to have full use of my arm before it is needed  
in battle."  
  
Aragorn looked sharply at Legolas.  It seemed that he was not the only one  
to sense the change in the air.  He was about to question the elf on this,  
when a loud oath, followed by several harsh words in another language assailed  
his ears.  
  
Gimli stalked onto the practice field, his entire frame resonating righteous  
indignation.  The dwarf was carrying a large bundle wrapped in cloth in  
his arms.  He stopped a few paces away and glared at Legolas, completely  
ignoring Aragorn and Arwen, still muttering curses beneath his breath.  
  
Aragorn glanced toward Legolas and found the elf eyeing Gimli curiously, the  
picture of innocence.  
  
"You, you......," the dwarf seemed completely unable to form a  
coherent sentence.  
  
"Did something at breakfast disagree with you, Master dwarf?" Legolas  
asked, still the picture of innocence.  Aragorn looked at Legolas once  
more, and had to force down a loud groan.  
  
At the elf's words, Gimli's face seemed to grow so red that Aragorn was afraid  
the dwarf was going to burst something.  Quickly stepping between the two,  
he faced Gimli, still eyeing the bundle in the dwarf's hands.  "What  
has happened, Gimli," he asked the irate dwarf.  
  
Gimli finally seemed to be released from his inarticulate state.   
"What has happened?!!" the dwarf roared.  "I'll show you  
what has happened."  With these words, Gimli threw down the bundle in  
his arms and quickly swept the cloth off.  Aragorn groaned at what he  
saw.  "Look what he has done to my armor!" Gimli bellowed.  
  
"It appears to be...," Aragorn hesitated, throwing a glance at Arwen,  
who seemed to be trying desperately to hold back laughter.  "Well, it  
appears.."  
  
"GREEN! That's what it appears.  Green! And it is all the elf’s  
doing."  Gimli glared past Aragorn toward where Legolas stood, still  
eyeing the scene with an innocence only born by one who is guilty beyond all  
doubt.  
  
Aragorn sighed and turned to Legolas.  "Did you turn his armor  
green?" he asked, already knowing the answer.  
  
Legolas shrugged, then grinned.  "I was merely trying to prepare the  
dwarf for his visit to Mirkwood.  Already, the elves complain that the  
dwarves are too easy to spot and make too much noise.  I cannot help Gimli  
with his loudness, yet I merely sought to help him blend in better with his  
surroundings.  If you ask me, green is a very nice color, and he should be  
thanking me for showing him some style."  
  
"Thanking you!" Gimli shouted.  "I will be thanking you to  
turn it back, and if you don't I will show you MY favorite color; Red."  
  
Aragorn grimaced.  This was quickly becoming nasty.  He had no fear  
of Gimli actually hurting Legolas, but there was the chance that the entire  
company would have to suffer through their arguments the rest of the day and  
perhaps into the next.  He was little surprised that this had happened,  
and deep down felt that the dwarf somewhat deserved what had happened.  At  
dinner the previous evening, Aragorn had overhead Gimli giving Legolas some  
less than complimentary comments on the elf’s habit of constantly wearing  
green.  Legolas had merely replied that Gimli might grow to like the  
color, at which the dwarf had laughed and stated ‘that the day he wore green,  
would be the day they started making armor in that color.’  It seemed that  
Legolas had taken the dwarf a little too seriously.  
  
Quickly turning once more to Gimli, Aragorn sought to calm the dwarf.  “I  
will send for someone to fetch your armor right away, and by nightfall it will  
be back to normal.”  
  
Gimli still glared at Legolas, not even looking at Aragorn, but he bowed  
slightly and grunted his thanks.  Aragorn sighed and guessed that was  
about all he could expect.  He was about to suggest that they all go and  
find something for breakfast, if for no other reason than to change the  
subject, but Legolas spoke first.  
  
“It seems as if I was right, and our waiting has indeed come to an end.”   
The elf was staring past Aragorn and Gimli, and his voice was quiet and light.  
  
Aragorn followed his gaze and spotted Faramir hurrying toward them.  The  
expression on the Steward’s face caused Aragorn to agree with Legolas; the  
waiting had come to an end.  Gimli also turned from glaring at the elf and  
watched the Steward’s approach curiously. Aragorn moved over to Arwen and  
clasped her hand tightly once more, waiting for Faramir’s arrival.  
  
The Steward came to a halt before them, bowing towards Aragorn and Arwen, and  
giving Legolas and Gimli a sidelong look.  “My lord,” he said haltingly to  
Aragorn, trying to catch his breath.  “Messengers have arrived  
from Ginzee and Murwell, and they wish to speak to you on a very  
urgent matter.  They are waiting within the council hall.  I have  
sent messengers to Gandalf and the hobbits, summoning them to join us  
there,”  Faramir finished, studying Aragorn to see his reaction to the  
news.  
  
Aragorn kept his face completely blank.  “Thank you, Faramir.  You  
have done well, and I wish for you to join us at the hall, but first…,” Aragorn  
hesitated, loathe to bring up the subject of Gimli's armor now that the dwarf  
seemed to have temporarily put the debate aside.  Finally, he plunged  
on.  “But first I would like you to see that master Gimli’s armor gets  
taken to the armory to be put back into its normal…..state.”  He indicated  
the pile still sitting in front of the dwarf.  
  
Faramir glanced down at the armor, and then his eyes immediately flew to  
Legolas, who was doing nothing to hide the amusement on his face.  Faramir  
had been sitting beside the dwarf and elf during the conversation the previous  
evening, and the steward had wondered at the time why Legolas had allowed the  
dwarf to get the better of the debate.  Now he knew why.  Bowing once  
more to Aragorn, Faramir turned and scooped up the armor, starting with it  
towards the city and trying to keep the smile off his face.  
  
Gimli merely snorted and turned away.  “Shall we go?” he asked Aragorn and  
Arwen, completely ignoring Legolas.  
  
Aragorn smiled and bowed, sweeping out his arm, “After you, Master Gimli.”  
  
Gimli snorted once more, and began setting off at a fast pace back towards the  
citadel.  Aragorn and  
  
Arwen turned to Legolas.  “Are you coming my friend,” Aragorn asked.  
  
Legolas seemed lost deep in thought, and his eyes were distant when he turned  
to Aragorn.  “I will be along shortly,” he assured Aragorn  
absentmindedly.  “I must go and fetch my arrow first.”  
  
Aragorn frowned slightly, thinking once more that he needed to find a time to  
talk to the elf in private.  For a while, Legolas had seemed his normal, cheerful  
and a bit mischievous, self.  Now, however, the elf was slipping back into  
the distracted melancholy that had caused Aragorn great concern the last couple  
of days.  “We will meet you there,” Aragorn agreed, still eyeing the elf  
sharply.  Legolas seemed completely unaware of the scrutiny as he turned  
and began loping easily toward the row of targets.  
  
Aragorn watched him for a second longer, then turned with Arwen and began  
walking towards the citadel.  He was lost deep in thought, and Arwen also  
seemed to be occupied by contemplation.  At last, Aragorn turned to  
her.  “Has Legolas disclosed to you what might be bothering him?” he asked  
quietly.  
  
Arwen looked up at him and shook her head.  “He has not told me anything,  
although I feel, like you, that something is troubling him greatly.   
Perhaps Gimli can tell you what it is.”  
  
Aragorn shook his head.  “I don’t think he has even shared with Gimli what  
it is that lies so heavy upon him.  I have seen the dwarf looking at  
Legolas with the same concerned confusion that I feel.”  
  
“Have you talked to him yourself?” Arwen asked gently.  
  
“I wait for a time when I may do so,” Aragorn responded.  “Yet I had hoped  
that he would choose to confide in me of his own free will."  
  
Arwen sighed, her eyes distant.  "I have known Legolas for a very  
long time," she said quietly.  "He is very proud.  Anything  
he views as a weakness or anything that might cause others to view him with  
pity or concern, he will keep to himself, rather than cause worry to others."   
She smiled to herself then, perhaps reliving in her mind some distant  
memory.  "In this way, he is much like his father.  In truth,  
much like all the elves of Mirkwood and no few of Rivendell as well."  
  
Aragorn nodded, knowing all too well the truth of Arwen's words.  Whatever  
was troubling Legolas, the elf prince would keep it to himself unless Aragorn  
managed to find a way to pry it from him.  Yet, Aragorn was unsure whether  
he should try to pressure his friend into sharing his feelings, or whether he  
should leave the elf in peace and allow matters to play themselves out.   
Even as he pondered this, they moved to the front entrance of the  
citadel.  Aragorn firmly pushed thoughts of Legolas and what might be  
troubling the elf to the back of his mind.  It was time to take care of  
the task at hand.  
  
**************  
  
Legolas's pace was neither swift nor slow as he proceeded across the archery  
field. Reaching the target that held his arrow, he pulled the shaft free and  
began examining it closely, a habit he had formed when still considered 'young'  
even by elven standards.  He had learned that even a slight knick or  
bending of the soft wood could cause the arrow to go astray, something he was  
not willing to risk when this arrow’s next target could very easily decide  
between life and death for himself or those that fought near him.  This  
was no ordinary arrow, however.  It, along with its brothers in his  
quiver, were made by the finest craft lords in Mirkwood, and the wood was  
strong and the point true.  Even the other elves of Middle Earth admitted  
that the arrows crafted in Mirkwood were the finest arrows in the land.  
  
Satisfied that the arrow was still true, Legolas slipped it back into his  
quiver and turned towards the city.  He knew that Aragorn would wish to  
begin the meeting as soon as possible, and Legolas was also anxious to bring  
the waiting to an end.  He began a slow and easy jog back up the archery  
field and toward the high tower of the citadel, thrusting up from the city like  
one of the jagged pieces of rock he had witnessed while touring the caves with  
Gimli.  
  
Gandalf met him at the entrance to the gate, and it appeared to Legolas as if  
the wizard had been waiting there for him.  The two fell in side by side  
as they walked toward the council hall, and Gandalf was the first to break the  
silence between them.  
  
"Did you have another dream last night?"  The wizard asked  
simply.  
  
Legolas grimaced slightly at Gandalf's direct words, and unconsciously glanced  
around  to see if anyone might be near enough to overhear their conversation.   
The nearest people were two grooms, ushering a group of horses across the  
courtyard.  Legolas shook his head, then realized the wizard was not  
looking at him and answered out loud.  "No."  His voice was  
soft, and he found himself wishing he could change the subject.   
  
Gandalf glanced at him out of the corner of his eye and grunted.  "I  
guess I should ask you if you slept at all?"  
  
Legolas shrugged, not meeting the wizard's eyes.  "A little," he  
said vaguely, watching as two boys raced about, whacking at each other with  
wooden swords.  
  
Gandalf let out a very expressive sigh, as he too watched the two boys.  A  
small smile crossed his face, not going at all with the grimness in his  
eyes.  "You must sleep sometime you know, for even elves grow weary  
eventually without rest, and your senses will need to be alert when we face  
this new threat."  
  
"I am aware of this," Legolas answered, somewhat tersely.   
"Yet I do not think even you would wish to rest if your dreams were  
constantly plagued by visions of your death!"  
  
Gandalf shook his head, slowing the pace and glancing sharply at the elf.   
"I thought we had agreed that your dream did not necessarily signify your  
death," he said in a gentle, but firm voice.  
  
"I know not what else it could be," Legolas answered, finally meeting  
the wizard's gaze and allowing his great weariness to enter his voice.   
"A blackness such as I have never felt before, and the cold..." the  
elf trailed off, yet another shudder racking his slight frame.  "And  
this was but a dream.  I cannot even contemplate what it would feel like  
for real.  If it is not death, then I think I would almost prefer death to  
this dark chill."  
  
"Do not dwell on these dark things," Gandalf admonished gently,  
looking at the elf with something akin to pity.  Being the only other  
member of the company to have experienced one of the dreams, Gandalf could  
associate with what Legolas must feel.  He remembered very clearly his own  
dream, and how detailed and realistic it had all seemed.  Facing the   
nature of Legolas's dreams, Gandalf could not really blame the elf for not  
wishing to sleep.  Already, Legolas had faced this nightmare three times,  
and though he would never admit it, Gandalf was getting worried.  
  
Legolas saw the wizard's face and looked away quickly.  "I do not  
desire your sympathy or worry on my behalf, Mithrandir," he said  
softly.  "If I could have it my way, even you would not know of  
this."  
  
"I would have found out sooner or later in any case," Gandalf said  
dismissively.  "It is not easy to hide things from me when I truly  
wish the answers."  
  
"What does it matter," Legolas said, a spark of rebellion entering  
his voice.  "What will be, will be, and all this worrying and talking  
about it will not change anything."  
  
"That is simply not the case," Gandalf answered firmly, allowing a  
hint of annoyance to enter his voice.  "Remember your first  
dream.  It is lucky for Aragorn that you did not take this attitude  
then.  You changed the outcome of that dream, and there is nothing to say  
that you cannot do the same for this one."  
  
Legolas shrugged and looked away, picking up the pace once more in the hope  
that they would reach the council hall swiftly and end this discussion.  
  
Gandalf sighed and muttered something about stubborn elves, as he picked up his  
own pace to match Legolas's.  He decided to shift the topic  
slightly.  "Have you told any of the others yet?" he asked  
pointedly, and when it seemed as if Legolas was not intending to answer him, he  
pressed on.  "Aragorn and Gimli already suspect something, and I believe  
you will not be able to hide this from them much longer."  
  
Still Legolas pressed on and said nothing, yet Gandalf was not about to let him  
get off so easily.  "Gimli has come to me three times already, asking  
my council on what ails you.  He is truly worried, though he hides it  
well."  
  
At last, Legolas showed a reaction.  He slowed his pace once more and  
turned toward Gandalf, his face intense.  
  
Before Legolas could ask the question, Gandalf answered for him.   
"No, I did not tell him anything, as I promised I wouldn't, but it is only  
a matter of time before both he and Aragorn will learn  the truth, and I  
do not think they will be happy with you for holding back for so long."  
  
Legolas sighed and shook his head.  "I merely do not wish for them to  
worry.  If they knew about the dream, they would watch me like a  
hawk!"  
  
"They already worry," Gandalf answered earnestly. "And as for  
watching you like a hawk, is that such a bad thing if it might prevent the  
dream from happening?"  
  
"If they spend all their time watching me, and bring themselves and those  
they travel with  into danger, then yes, it is a bad thing," Legolas  
stated glumly.  
  
"So do you intend to keep avoiding them and brushing off their  
concerns?  I assure you that this will not work, and eventually, one of  
them will confront you.  What do you intend to do then?"  
  
"I will deal with that if and when it happens," Legolas said  
firmly.  In truth, he was unsure of what he would tell them.  He had  
never lied to his friends before, and he had no intention of starting now.  
  
Gandalf read a desperate plea in the elf's eyes to let the conversation  
die.  They had almost reached the council room when Gandalf pulled Legolas  
to a stop.  Facing the elf, Gandalf placed his hand firmly on the slim  
shoulder and spoke with a deep earnestness.  "You will have to face  
this sooner or later my friend, and I think you would find that the burden  
becomes lighter to bear if you allow your friends to bear it with you."  
  
With these final words, Gandalf swept forward into the council room.   
Legolas shut his eyes briefly and tried desperately to control his frayed  
emotions.  Taking a deep breath, he turned and followed the wizard into  
the room.  
  
******  
  
"They wouldn't even allow us to finish our breakfast," Pippin said  
glumly, staring at his hands as if in hope of finding some stray crumb he had  
missed.  
  
Standing a few feet away, Gimli glanced toward the hobbits and shook his  
head.  "I bet the messenger sent by Faramir didn't have to look long  
for you four.  And if he had allowed you to finish your breakfast, we  
would all still be sitting here waiting when the midmorning bell rang."  
  
"What's got you in such a foul mood this morning?" Pippin mumbled  
indignantly.  
  
Gimli grunted and did not answer, his mind was too busy formulating plans for  
sweet revenge on a certain elf.  
  
Across the room, Faramir, Aragorn, and Arwen were talking quietly with two tall  
men in travel stained riding clothes, their faces lined with fatigue.   
Gimli glanced toward the door just as Gandalf strode into the room.  The  
wizard glanced around briefly before walking over to join Aragorn and the  
others.  
  
Gimli frowned and turned to the door once more, wondering what could be keeping  
Legolas.  The thought had barely formed in his mind, when the elf  
entered.  Gimli got a good look at Legolas's face and felt himself  
stiffen. Legolas turned toward them, quickly schooling his face neutral   
Gimli found all thoughts of revenge driven from his mind as a sudden deep  
concern for his friend overwhelmed him.  Legolas looked positively too  
pale and Gimli was even more certain than before that something was seriously  
troubling the elf.  
  
A sudden suspicion hit the dwarf like a hammer blow.  The last several  
days he had been prying at Legolas, hoping his friend would drop some clue as  
to what was ailing him, and he suddenly found himself wondering if the entire  
incident with his armor had been nothing more than the elf attempting to  
distract him.  He definitely would not put it past Legolas to try such a  
low down, uncalled for prank simply to stop him from meddling.  
  
Even as these thoughts were passing through Gimli's head, his friend walked  
toward where he and the hobbits stood.  Legolas eyed Gimli somewhat warily  
from the corner of his eye as he bid the hobbits a cheerful good morning.  
  
Gimli frowned, even more suspicious.  Legolas was definitely trying to  
distract him, and the dwarf had had enough.  He was going to get the truth  
from Legolas even if he had to sit on his friend until he would talk.   
Gimli opened his mouth to threaten just this, when Aragorn called to them from  
across the room.  
  
Legolas had seen the different expressions floating across Gimli's face, and  
already suspected what the dwarf was going to say, so he quickly used the  
distraction to slip away and hurry across the room to Aragorn's side.   
With a not too complimentary oath directed at elves in general, Gimli followed  
with the hobbits.  
  
A table had been carried into the room, and it was around this that the company  
now gathered.  Gimli arrived just as Aragorn was dismissing the two travel  
worn men, bidding them to rest and refresh themselves.  Gimli frowned,  
trying to pull his mind to the task at hand while still keeping an eye on  
Legolas, who was undeniably avoiding his gaze.  "Don't we need to  
question them still?"  Gimli asked as a young servant girl led the  
two men past him.  
  
Aragorn glanced at him, his lips quirking into a small smile that never touched  
his eyes.  "I have already finished questioning them, Master  
Gimli.  Their tale was not long, and if I have any further questions I  
will seek them out later.  But now they are extremely weary, for they had  
a hard ride and came immediately here to speak with us."  
  
"Did they bring news of Malek?" Legolas asked softly.  
  
The hobbits shivered and exchanged looks among themselves. Gimli guessed that  
the restlessness that had imprisoned the rest of them, had not bothered the  
small hobbits.  
  
Aragorn nodded, and a note of disgust entered his voice as he answered the  
elf.  "They are messengers from the towns of Ginzee and Murwel located  
at the base of the Ered Nimrais along the banks of the river Ciril.  Malek  
and his orcs attacked both their towns.  Both barely escaped with their  
own lives, if they were not allowed to escape, and nearly rode their mounts to  
death to get here so swiftly."  Aragorn paused and glanced toward  
Gandalf.  "You said that Malek would make his location known and I  
should have expected this, yet I still intend to see that evil creature pay for  
every drop of blood he spilt."  
  
Gandalf did not respond, intent upon studying the pile of maps which lay upon  
the table.  
  
"The Ered Nimrais," Gimli mused, also studying the maps laid out  
before him.  "That would make sense, for those mountains contain many  
large caverns and tunnels in which he can hide himself and his army during the  
day."  
  
"Yes," Legolas said thoughtfully.  "But Ered Nimrais is a  
large mountain range, and there are literally thousands of these caves you  
speak of.  How are we supposed to know where to find him?  That is,  
if he even still remains there after we arrive."  
  
"We already know his basic location," Aragorn answered.   
"Both of the attacked towns were located along the Ciril river, so I am  
led to believe that it is somewhere in the mountains around this river that he  
hides.  As for him leaving ere we arrive, I do not think we have to  
worry.  I must agree with Gandalf that he wants us to come to him."  
  
"Yet how do we find him?" Gimli pressed.  "The area around  
the Ciril is still vast and contains many large caverns he could hide in.   
What are we supposed to do, send men to each cave entrance to knock and ask if  
Malek is in."  
  
"Hardly, master dwarf," Aragorn answered dryly. "Instead of  
searching the mountains for Malek, we merely allow him to find us.  Look  
closely at the map and tell me what you see."  
  
Gimli shrugged and the entire company gathered close, studying the maps.   
All the dwarf could see were vast mountains with endless tunnels and  
caverns.  He was unsure what Aragorn was hinting at.  
  
It was Frodo who finally broke the silence with a single word.   
"Calembel."  
  
Aragorn looked at the hobbit approvingly and nodded his head.  "You  
have sharp eyes, my small friend."  
  
Gimli squinted at the small map, trying to find what the two were talking  
about.  He finally discovered the small dot marking the city of  
Calembel.  The city was located on the east bank of the Ciril River, and  
lay almost at the base of the Ered Nimrais.  He looked up and met  
Aragorn's eyes, shrugging to admit his confusion.  
  
"Both of the messengers rode by Calembel, and they claimed that the city  
looked intact and completely unbothered.  Do you not find it a bit odd  
that the closest city to the mountains, the one most likely to be attacked, has  
been left unmolested?"  
  
Gimli finally nodded, understanding dawning at last.  
  
"Maybe Malek doesn't have a large enough army yet to attack a city,"  
Sam suggested quietly.  
  
"Perhaps," Aragorn answered.  "Yet I learned from the two  
guards that Calembel is virtually defenseless unless you count their private  
merchant guards.  The city has no central garrison of men, and its walls  
are in almost complete disrepair.  It would be an easy enough thing for a  
small force to attack the city and cause much damage, and yet Malek has not  
even attempted this.  Why?"  
  
"Because he is waiting for us to arrive," Legolas answered after  
several long seconds of silence.  
  
Aragorn nodded, catching the elf's eyes.  "That is what I  
believe," he stated simply.  
  
"Then what are we going to do," Merry asked, somewhat tremulously.  
  
"We ride to Calembel, of course," Aragorn answered the hobbit with a  
smile.  
  
"Even knowing what we do, that Malek is waiting for us?"  Pippin  
asked incredulously.  
  
"Even knowing this," Aragorn stated quietly.  "But I think  
that Malek will find more than he bargained for when he seeks to attack us  
there."  
  
Gandalf spoke up for the first time, startling all of them.  "I  
believe we should leave as soon as possible and travel as swiftly as we are  
able."  
  
Aragorn nodded.  "I intend to leave at dawn tomorrow, before the  
tolling of the bell.  There will be plenty of opportunities on the journey  
to discuss our plans."  
  
"In that case," Gandalf said solemnly, "I suggest that we end  
this meeting and each of us go and see to our preparations.  The next few  
days promise to be very long, so I also suggest that you all try to get what  
rest you can." The wizard's eyes flickered briefly to Legolas before he  
turned and led the way from the council hall.  Soon Aragorn, Faramir, and  
Arwen were the only ones remaining in the room.  
  
Faramir turned to Aragorn and bowed low.  "With your permission, my  
lord, I will go and prepare the men for tomorrow's march."  
  
Aragorn nodded.  "I want you to split the army.  Take the  
mounted men and put them in the first party that will ride with us at  
dawn.  The rest of the army must follow after as fast as they can.  I  
will not tarry more than is absolutely necessary in reaching Calembel."  
  
Faramir nodded and bowed once more, turning to leave the room.  He  
hesitated upon reaching the door, then slowly turned once more and faced  
Aragorn.  "My lord," he said, then paused and glanced toward  
Arwen.  The elf princess seemed totally oblivious to their conversation,  
instead looking out at the garden on the other end of the council hall.  
  
Faramir cleared his throat and continued.  "My lord, I wish to know  
if you intend for me to remain behind or whether I may ride with you on the  
morrow?"  
  
Aragorn regarded his steward closely.   "What would you  
have," he asked softly, although he already knew the answer.  
  
"I will abide by any order you choose to give me," Faramir replied  
honestly.  Aragorn merely arched an eyebrow at him, so Faramir  
continued.  "Yet I must confess that it is my desire to ride with  
you, my lord, as I once was unable to do."  
  
Aragorn continued to stare at him, and Faramir had to force himself not to  
shift restlessly beneath the king's intense gaze.  Finally, Aragorn's eyes  
softened, and he motioned Faramir back into the room.  
  
"I had intended upon talking of this to you later," Aragorn said  
lightly, "but now seems as good a time as any."  Aragorn paused,  
and then smiled at Faramir's tense expression.  "You will ride beside  
me tomorrow morning, and I will be glad of your company, yet I feel that I  
should forewarn you that my decision was made for a far more important reason  
than my desire to have you at my side.”  
  
"How so, my lord," Faramir asked.  
  
It was Aragorn's turn to glance at Arwen, yet the elf still seemed completely  
uninterested in their conversation.  Aragorn sighed and turned back to  
Faramir.  "When we ride out, we will be riding to two different  
battles."  
  
Faramir looked confused, so Aragorn hurried to explain.  
  
"We will be riding to the same place; however, just like the war with  
Sauron, we will be riding to defeat two different enemies.  You, leading  
the men of Gondor, will be charged with defeating the orc army this creature  
has managed to raise, and I and the others will concentrate on defeating Malek  
himself.  If something should happen to me, you will be in charge of  
making sure that no evil creature is left to hurt Gondor.  This is the  
charge that I give to you now, and I expect it to be followed no matter what  
happens."  
  
Faramir met Aragorn's intense gaze, and something seemed to pass between the  
two men.  Faramir bowed low.  "It will be as you say, my  
lord," he said in a near whisper.  
  
Aragorn nodded.  "Go and see to the men now," he ordered gently,  
and Faramir straightened and left the room.  
  
Aragorn stared after him for several long minutes until he felt a gentle touch  
on his arm.  Looking down at Arwen, Aragorn sighed heavily before pulling  
her gently into his arms.  "Tomorrow's dawn will come all too soon,  
and I will be forced to leave you once again," Aragorn murmured  
sorrowfully against her smooth hair.  
  
"Nay, my love," Arwen whispered softly, "for I would also seek  
to be allowed to accompany you on your journey."  
  
Aragorn stepped back in surprise and looked down at Arwen's upturned face,  
wondering if he had heard wrong.  She met his gaze evenly, and with no  
sign of backing down.  
  
"Arwen.." Aragorn began, but she cut him off before he could say  
anymore.  
  
"I have thought on this for a very long time, my lord, and I have decided  
that we have been separated once too often.  I will not allow it to happen  
once more if I can stop it!"  
  
Aragorn finally realized that she was serious, more from her use of his  
official title than for any words she had said.  "You are needed  
here, Arwen," he said gently, trying to dissuade her.  
  
Arwen shook her head.  "I am not yet your queen, so I have no  
authority to rule the people of Gondor in your absence."  
  
"The people would still listen to you," Aragorn argued.  
  
"Yes," Arwen admitted.  "Just as well as they would listen  
to one of your advisor's in my stead."  
  
"We ride into battle, Arwen," Aragorn stressed with a gentle squeeze  
of her shoulders.  
  
"And I learned the use of the sword and fought in my first battle before  
you were ever born, Elven Star, so that argument will not work with me."  
  
Aragorn searched his mind desperately for anything else he might use to  
persuade Arwen against this action.  "What of your father and  
brothers?  They are expected to arrive here within the week."  
  
"You have already sent messengers to warn them of what has happened.   
My father will expect me to be gone with you."  
  
Aragorn opened his mouth and then realized that he didn't have any more  
arguments to give her.  Closing it, he slowly began shaking his head.  
  
"If you do not give me permission, then I will follow you once you have  
gone," Arwen stated boldly.  Aragorn saw the determination and  
defiance in her eyes.  The two stood inches apart, staring unflinchingly  
at each other.  
  
Long minutes seemed to pass, and then Aragorn let out a loud sigh.   
"I have no doubt that you would," he said in defeat, then suddenly  
began to chuckle.  "Your bold determination is perhaps one of the  
things I love so greatly about you."  
  
Arwen's eyes shone.  "Then it is decided. I shall go and prepare my  
things."  With these words, she swept out of the room leaving Aragorn  
standing there trying to figure out what had just happened.  
  
At last he sighed and shook his head.  "I fear you were right, Gimli  
my friend," he mumbled aloud.  "Women do make a warrior  
weak.  I would have it no other way, yet if anything happens to her, I  
shall never forgive myself."  With these grave words, Aragorn also  
strode from the room to begin his own preparations for the journey.  
  
******  
  
The city of Calembel was considered an old city by the standards of most  
men.  Its giant walls and buildings were made mostly from stone, crafted  
and hewn by the dwarves, marking a time when that race roamed around Middle  
Earth and mingled freely with the other races.  The dwarves had long since  
returned to the mountains and now seemed completely content to remain there,  
digging out their treasures.  
  
As for Calembel, it had survived many a hardship, and the city was beginning to  
look a little worse for the wear.  The city had begun as a rough mining  
town, back when men joined with the dwarves in digging out precious minerals  
and rocks from the mountains of Ered Nimrais.  Finally, believing the  
mountain to be bare of any more useful materials, the men had abandoned their  
tunnels, many moving away to find a new trade.  For several years,  
Calembel had stood mostly empty, with little hope for a future.  
  
Then a sharp young merchant had developed a craft to carry goods upstream,  
through the mountains to the many cities on the other side.  This simple  
discovery had marked the rebirth of the city, and soon it was a center of much  
trading, and considered a merchant's haven.  
  
The great, great, great grandson of this merchant now ruled in Calembel as its  
mayor and chief merchant.  Mayor Merton Fallow Candywell the III, commonly  
known by the citizens of the city as Merty, was an overly fat, pompous man who  
had too much money and not enough sense.  He remained the chief merchant  
of the city only by remaining completely uninvolved with his trade, leaving it  
up to a team of advisors.  Though Merton remained separated from his  
merchant dealings, he did not remain separated from the great wealth it afforded  
him.  He lived in something akin to a castle, directly in the center of  
the city, and enjoyed nothing more than watching the poorer members of the city  
beg him to lend them money to keep their trade from failing.  
  
Altogether, he was not the most favored person in the city, but he was the most  
feared.  For with wealth and position came power.  And if there was  
anything that Merton enjoyed more than power, the people of the city did not  
know what it was.  
  
Presently, Merton Fallow Candywell the III was sitting comfortably in a large  
chair on his veranda, sipping an expensive wine, and trying desperately to  
ignore the messenger standing at attention five feet away.  
  
At last, the messenger finished delivering his speech, and with an airy toss of  
his hand Merton waved the fellow away.  A grimace of distaste covered his  
face, and the wine suddenly tasted sour in his mouth.  He sat silent for  
several more minutes, then bellowed out the name of the Keeper of House.   
A second later, the woman appeared, curtsying low while trying to mop sweat  
from her forehead.  From the stains on the woman's apron, Merton guessed  
she had been busy in the kitchen when he had yelled for her.  
  
Grimacing once again and looking away, Merton motioned the woman to him.   
"I have just learned," he said disgustedly, "that the king is on  
his way to Calembel this very moment, and we are to expect him by noon  
tomorrow.  
  
The woman gave a start.  "The king," she repeated.   
"You mean the king of Gondor?"  
  
Merton gave her a withering look.  "No, the king of the  
dwarves," he said sarcastically.  "Of course the king of  
Gondor!"  
  
The woman blushed and looked away before asking her next question.   
"And what business brings the king to Calembel?"  
  
Merton tried to remember what he had heard the messenger announce.  He  
hadn't really been paying attention after the first line announcing the king’s  
arrival.  "Something about orcs and wishing to use the city as his  
base of operation," he said vaguely, waving away this information as not  
important.  "But the king comes soon, and he brings over a thousand  
men with him, and I am expected to find a place to put them all."  
  
The woman nodded, knowing that what Merton really meant was that she would be  
required to find a place to put the soldiers.  "I have heard some  
troubling rumors about orcs roaming about and I shall be glad of the extra  
soldiers,"  she said cheerfully.  
  
Merton glared at her, quickly quenching her excitement.  "Whatever  
orcs may be roaming about, the merchant guards of the city are more than  
capable of protecting us!  We do not need some king to come poking his  
nose into the affairs of Calembel."  Merton knew that the words he  
was speaking were close to treasonous, yet he also knew that the woman would  
not dare repeat them to others.  With an impatient wave, he motioned her  
to leave him.  "Make sure that you prepare rooms for our  
guests," he called out bitterly to her retreating form.  
  
Merton stood staring out into the city.  He had heard a lot about this new  
king, for among other things, Merton was an incurable gossip.  He had  
heard that the king was nothing more than a simple ranger who had ties of royal  
blood.  How he had ever been allowed to take the throne, Merton was  
uncertain, and until now he had not cared.  Calembel lay far to the west of  
Minas Tirith, and their isolation near the Ered Nimrais had caused them to  
separate even further from the kingdom.  The city very rarely received any  
messengers or ambassadors from Minas Tirith, and when they did, Merton would  
throw a quick banquet in their honor, and then they would leave.  
  
Merton got a sudden idea.  Perhaps the king would only stay a couple of  
days, and then leave the city in peace once more.  Turning and hurrying  
into the large house, Merton went in search of the Keeper of House once  
more.  He would tell her to prepare a great feast in honor of the king's  
arrival!  
  
*****  
  
Deep within the dark caves of Ered Nimrais, Malek sat hunched, listening to the  
report from one of his captains.  An evil grin covered his face, and  
unconsciously his tongue flicked out to lick his lips.  
  
The captain reported that the king's army would reach the city of Calembel by  
noon the following day.  Malek hissed out an  excited laugh, rubbing  
his rough hands together in anticipation.  The game was just beginning to  
get interesting.


	11. Well Laid Plans

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Fellowship is reuniting, but may face a new threat that is hunting them all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had a slight change in plans for my story, and so

_Author's note: I had a slight change in plans for my story, and so this chapter wasn't what I had expected to write at first. In fact, I had not even intended to write this chapter, but my muse wouldn't leave me alone, and I finally gave in. Hope you enjoy!!!!_  
  
~ _Pain...  
  
White hot and searing engulfed him, lashing at him like tongues of flame and stealing the very air from his lungs.  
  
Pain...  
_  
_Such as he had never known before, filling him and building until he thought he must surely explode from the pressure_.~  
  
"Wake up, Legolas!"  
  
~ _Cold, hard stone pressed against his back, a sharp contrast to the fire flowing through his veins. A coarse cloth covered his eyes, blocking out all sight, as rough hands gripped him and held him fast to the ground, cruel laughter filling the air.  
  
He struggled against the ones holding him, thrashing and twisting in an attempt to break free, but this only caused the hands to tighten their grip, adding to the sea of agony that threatened to sweep him away.~  
_  
"Get UP, Elf! The dawn has already come and Aragorn will be riding on without us if you do not rise! Get Up!"  
  
~ _He could sense an unnaturally dark presence near by, and h_ is _struggles intensified, but to no avail. He felt a slight shift in the ones that held him down, and then something hard and cold was pressed against his chest. A wave of evil, so intense it drowned out even his pain, swept through him. He moaned as his body went completely limp, all energy drained from him.  
  
A freezing blackness seemed to be all about him, entrapping him more effectively than the rough hands that still held him. The blackness seemed to be trying to meld with him, sinking into his very skin, his very soul. The pressure on his chest increased, bringing with it a new pain, darker and colder. The cruel laughter was gone, replaced by soft, black words in a language_ _he had never heard, the words seeming to aid the darkness in its takeover of his body.  
  
"No," he cried out in his own language, trying to drown out the dark words being muttered above him. "No! You shall not have me!"~_  
  
"Even the hobbits have risen, and yet you still sleep? Wake up or I shall be forced to pour a basin of water over your sleeping head!"  
  
~ _He had never experienced anything like the cold that now had hold of his body. It seemed as if all light and warmth or memory of warmth was being drowned in an unstoppable sea of ice and dark. His very soul was wrapped in black ice, and he knew there would be no escape. He tried to cry out once more, but no sound came as he at last gave over to the shadow._ ~  
  
The dream shattered into a million sparkling fragments, just as it seemed his very soul shattered. With a shout, Legolas jerked awake, his body going immediately into the movement that had been denied it during his dream. Drawing his knife smoothly, he jumped to his feet, the sudden light in contrast with the darkness of his dream temporarily blinding him. He heard a muffled exclamation, then a thud, and the soft splash of water.  
  
Still not able to see completely, Legolas whirled toward the sound, knife extended.  
  
"EASY, Legolas! It is just me! Stop waving that thing around!"  
  
Legolas gasped, his sight returning slowly, and with it the realization of where he was. Dim light filtered through the thick canvas of the tent he had shared the last few nights of travel with Gimli and the hobbits.  
  
He glanced down to find Gimli sitting rather awkwardly at his feet. The dwarf was soaking wet, a metal basin lying on the ground a few feet away.  
  
Legolas could only stare at the dwarf mutely as his body began to shudder in an attempt to throw off the dark vestiges of his dream. It was always like this when he first awoke, and he knew it would be a long time before his body would completely stop shaking.  
  
Still sprawled on the ground, Gimli looked up at Legolas worriedly. The dwarf had never seen such raw emotion displayed on his friend's face.  
  
"Legolas..." Gimli began, attempting to rise from his undignified position. Before he could say another word, Legolas swept past him so quickly that Gimli lost his balance and found himself sprawled upon the ground once more. He turned just in time to see the tent flap fall back in place behind the elf's retreating back. For a couple of long seconds, Gimli just sat on the ground, too shocked by the elf's abrupt exit to think, let alone act. Legolas hadn't even said one word to him!  
  
Outside the tent, Legolas paused only long enough to take a deep, steadying breath and school his features to calm, before he quickly lost himself among the morning preparations to break camp.  
  
He hated walking out on Gimli, and yet he felt he had no choice. He desperately needed to be outside, breathing in the fresh air, and letting some warmth and light return to his seemingly numb body. He did not think he could face any of his friends right now, least of all Gimli, nor could he face the questions they would have for him. Not yet. Not so soon after waking from the nightmare.  
  
The dreams had been getting progressively worse, if that were possible, the further East he traveled. Now, the company was almost to Calembel, and Legolas wondered if he would ever dare sleep again until this thing was over.  
  
Legolas continued wandering through the camp of soldiers busy preparing for the day's march. He didn't have a specific destination, but just continued walking because it gave him something to do besides think. He kept his pace quick and purposeful, avoiding meeting anyone's eyes and praying that no one would try and stop him. He was not in the mood to talk.  
  
It was still very early, the sky appearing even more dim and bleak due to a thick blanket of dark clouds that blocked the sun's warm rays. The Ered Nimrais thrust upward ominously just a few miles to the North, its high peaks cloaked by the low clouds, giving the mountains a sinister and evil appearance. Legolas carefully kept his gaze away from the mountains, looking instead out to the plains, where the view was not so threatening. Rolling hills with an abundant amount of trees and scrub brush filled the landscape, dotted here and there with large boulders or little clusters of stone, looking almost as if they had been cast from the nearby mountains.  
  
As he walked, Legolas caught sight of Gandalf talking with Faramir. The wizard glanced up, his eyes scanning the early morning preparations. Legolas quickly turned once more and headed in the opposite direction from the wizard. He did not want Gandalf to see him and beckon him over, for he knew the wizard would ask how he had slept, and more importantly if he had dreamed. He was not ready to talk about his dream just yet. He needed more time to relax and organize his shaken thoughts.  
  
At last, Legolas headed toward the far edge of camp, where a long rope had been used to section off a sort of makeshift corral where some of the horses were allowed to wander free during the night. Shandarell stood alone within the enclosure, all the other mounts already having been retrieved by their owners and made ready for the day's journey.  
  
The great horse stood perfectly still, his nose thrust forward into the easterly wind, his mane and tail waving peacefully in the gentle breeze. Suddenly, as fast as an arrow from Legolas's bow, the horse leapt forward, going from stationary to full speed in one bound. Letting out a shrill cry, the horse charged straight toward the rope blocking him in. The soldiers on the other side of the barricade fell back with sharp cries of warning, for it seemed as if the horse was not going to stop, but either jump or crash straight through the thick rope.  
  
Seemingly at the very last second, Shandarell threw his weight onto his back haunches, twisting his front legs and doing a complete ninety degree turn in one fluid motion. His speed never slackening, he took off along the boundaries of the enclosure, neighing loudly and kicking out his back legs. The soldiers picked themselves up off the ground and laughed somewhat embarrassedly as they watched the horse complete a circuit of the enclosure at full speed and then start on a second round.  
  
Shandarell was truly a sight to behold, his fiery red coat gleaming brightly, his head thrown high, and his long strides eating up the ground with a graceful ease. He seemed to be almost showing off for the soldiers who now gathered around admiring him.  
  
Legolas let a small smile cross his face as he watched the antics of the horse that had become extremely dear to him. Approaching the small crowd gathered outside the enclosure, Legolas let out a low whistle. Shandarell skidded to a halt, bits of grass and dirt raining down on his back from the abrupt stop. He turned his head toward where Legolas was ducking beneath the rope and let out a loud snort, then suddenly leapt forward once more, this time directly toward Legolas.  
  
One of the soldiers called out a warning, but Legolas continued forward, straight toward the charging horse. Once again, Shandarell swerved at the very last minute, brushing past Legolas before turning and starting to run excited circles around him. Legolas's smile grew larger, and he let the horse play for several more minutes before he raised his hand slightly. Shandarell immediately calmed and came forward to lay his head against Legolas's chest, ruffling the elf's clothes in a search for any treats Legolas may have brought him.  
  
Legolas stroked the horse for a second before leading him from the enclosure. He didn't want to stay in one area for any amount of time where Gimli or one of the others might find him. He was desperately trying to think of a way he might avoid Gimli for the rest of the morning. Quite a task, since the dwarf normally rode with him.  
  
Suddenly, an idea struck him and he quickly set off in search of Aragorn.  
  
  
  
******  
  
Aragorn stood on a small hill overlooking the camp, watching the early morning preparations going on below him. Arwen stood silently behind him, offering him silent, yet welcome, companionship.  
  
Down in the camp. all the soldiers worked with a swift proficiency, and Aragorn knew they would be ready to begin the day's journey soon. He was pleased with the good time they had made over the past few days, traveling swiftly along the base of the Ered Nimrais, the mountain casting an ever- present shadow over the company. However, this morning, Aragorn's mood was light with the knowledge that his journey would soon be over. Calembel lay only a half day's journey away, and Aragorn was anxious to arrive and begin preparing the city's defense.  
  
Faramir had done an excellent job in splitting the army. Over fifteen hundred mounted soldiers now rode with Aragorn, and at least that many followed a few days behind on foot. Everything seemed to be going completely to plan, and they had yet to face any setbacks or major problems to slow them down.  
  
Thus, Aragorn had allowed his men a couple more hours of rest this morning, knowing that they would reach Calembel by noon, and that they could very well expect an attack from Malek and his orcs this very night.  
  
Aragorn was lost deep in thought and was slightly startled when Arwen greeted someone quietly behind him. He had heard no one approach, but when he turned and saw who it was that had joined them, he was not surprised by this.  
  
"Good morning, Legolas," he said cheerfully, glancing up at the morning sky. "It looks as if we can expect some rain to grace us during our journey today."  
  
"Good morning to both of you," Legolas replied, bowing slightly to Arwen, and giving a slight smile to Aragorn.  
  
"Where is Gimli?" Aragorn asked, glancing around for the dwarf who was very rarely far from the elf.  
  
Legolas shrugged, and Aragorn saw something flash through the elf's eyes before Legolas lowered his head.  
  
He frowned slightly, wondering at the elf's reserved manner. "We will be leaving soon," he said slowly. "Perhaps you should find him."  
  
Legolas raised his head, meeting his gaze, and whatever Aragorn had thought he had seen before was now gone. "I have come to ask permission to ride as a scout today," Legolas asked without hesitation.  
  
Aragorn was surprised by the request, and also slightly suspicious. Something was telling him that all was not as it should be. "I am afraid the scouts all rode out several hours ago," he said , eyeing Legolas closely.  
  
"I wish to ride on my own," Legolas replied quietly. "We are close to our destination, and our enemy knows we come. I would search for any traps he may have left in wait for us."  
  
"Do you suspect ambush," Aragorn asked seriously. "even though it is day, and Malek will not show himself while the sun is out?"  
  
"Malek may not abide the sun, yet the orcs have already proven they are willing to venture out under its light. We can not overlook the possibility that they may be lying in wait for us."  
  
Aragorn nodded. "I have thought of this as well. However, I truly feel that Malek will not order an attack on us until he is there to oversee it. Even so, I am not completely unprepared. All the scouts this morning left with word of warning to keep a sharp eye out for any orcs that could be lying in wait for us."  
  
"Still," Legolas argued, "I can perhaps find something that they might miss."  
  
Aragorn frowned again, now even more certain that something was not right. "And what about Gimli?" he asked, still eyeing Legolas sharply.  
  
"He can ride with one of the others for the day," Legolas said evasively, once more something flashing briefly in his eyes. "I doubt he will miss my presence too grievously.  
  
Aragorn nodded slowly, still wrestling with feelings of unease. For some reason, he didn't want to let the elf go, but he could not explain it to himself, let alone Legolas. "Very well," he finally said quietly. "But I wish you with me when I enter the city this afternoon."  
  
"I will be there," Legolas responded with a bow. Turning, he leapt gracefully onto Shandarell's back and the horse was immediately away at a full gallop. Aragorn watched him go, still wearing a small frown. After the elf had disappeared from view, Aragorn turned, and with Arwen at his side, made his way back down into camp.  
  
They had not gone far, when Aragorn spotted Gimli making his way towards them, and by the look on the dwarf's face, Aragorn knew that he was not happy. It also appeared as if the dwarf was slightly damp, almost like he had slipped and fallen in a large puddle somewhere.  
  
"Where is he?" the dwarf demanded when he was still a few paces off.  
  
Aragorn eyed him shrewdly, shaking his head in amusement. "Why, I am fine Gimli, how nice of you to ask. And how is your morning?"  
  
Gimli grumbled something beneath his breath that Aragorn did not catch, but beside him, Arwen began to laugh. Aragorn glanced at her, and was about to ask what the dwarf had said that was so funny, but Gimli interrupted him.  
  
"Where is Legolas," the dwarf repeated, glaring up at Aragorn as if he was somehow hiding the elf within his cloak.  
  
Aragorn shook his head, wondering where the brightness of the morning had suddenly gone. "Legolas is out scouting the land before us," he explained with a sigh.  
  
"You let him go!!!" the dwarf all but shouted, a totally incredulous look on his rough face.  
  
"Is there a reason I shouldn't have?" Aragorn asked sharply, eyeing the dwarf intently.  
  
"YES, there is a reason," the dwarf replied roughly. "That elf owes me some answers, and I am not going to let him avoid me any longer! I will be needing a horse."  
  
Aragorn stared at Gimli, wondering if the dwarf was joking. He looked quite serious, and Aragorn shook his head in bewilderment. "You don't know how to ride a horse," he reminded the dwarf quietly.  
  
"'I'll learn," the dwarf stated firmly, determination written all over his face.  
  
Aragorn sighed and glanced toward Arwen. She shook her head slightly, then addressed Gimli. "Even if you rode out after him, you would not be able to find him. Especially if there is a reason he does not wish to be found."  
  
"I can try," Gimli replied a bit less firmly and with the first hint of doubt entering his voice.  
  
"Yes," Aragorn said calmly, despite a growing sense of unease. "You could try, but it would just be a waste of time and energy. I would much prefer that you remain here, with us."  
  
Gimli looked as if he wanted to argue, but at last common sense won out. "I suppose so," the dwarf said, doubt heavy in his voice. "Legolas can not stay away from us forever, and when he returns I shall get my answers, or he will have a very sore head."  
  
"And perhaps you can share some answers with me," Aragorn added quietly. "Such as what has caused this sudden anger toward Legolas."  
  
"Stupidity," the dwarf spat. "The elf will not TALK to me. He continues to avoid me, and even when I ride behind him he is constantly changing the subject."  
  
"Changing the subject from what?" Arwen asked curiously.  
  
"Something is troubling him greatly," Gimli answered, his voice suddenly growing soft, and a concerned frown revealing just how much he cared for his friend. "He is much too quiet and listless of late. Have you not noticed?"  
  
Aragorn and Arwen exchanged looks, and Aragorn sighed in exasperation. "Indeed, I have noticed, and I also searched for a time to talk to him about it in private. Unfortunately, I have not found such a time."  
  
Gimli snorted loudly. "Even if you had, I doubt he would have told you anything. I have been working on him all week, but he still somehow manages to evade my questions. But not anymore, not if it means I have to tie him to the ground and sit on him to get some answers!"  
  
"I wonder what could be bothering him?" Arwen asked softly of no one in particular.  
  
"As to that, my lady, I may now have a guess." Gimli's voice was low and thoughtful, and he commenced in relating to them the morning's events. When he had finished, Aragorn shook his head and let out a small sigh.  
  
"I should have known," the warrior said quietly. "Or at least, I should have guessed. All those secret meetings with Gandalf, and him not sleeping as he should. I have been a fool not to have seen it before now."  
  
"Then I, too, am a fool, and a greater one, for I spend the most time with him, and it should have been obvious to me," Gimli said despondently.  
  
"And if both of you are fools," Arwen said lightly, "then there is no hope for the world."  
  
Both man and dwarf looked at her in surprise, and she laughed lightly. "I should not have to remind you of whom we speak. Elves have had thousands of years to practice keeping secrets. Legolas is an expert in this. He most likely used your own worries and suspicions to throw you off the real track, so do not be too hard on yourselves."  
  
Gimli smiled at the elf princess and bowed low. "Well said, my lady," he said admiringly. Then he turned back to Arargorn, "So what do you suggest we do to convince Legolas to confide in us?"  
  
"First of all," Aragorn said firmly, "we must be patient. If we do not choose the right time and place to confront him, then I fear he will merely find another way to slip from our grasp and evade our questions. Remember that he is an elf, and thus an expert at avoiding that which he does not wish to face."  
  
Arwen arched a smooth eyebrow, and Aragorn continued. "Is this not true, my love. After all, you did very well in avoiding being separated from me once again."  
  
"A point that hardly pertains to this discussion," Arwen pointed out coolly.  
  
Aragorn laughed lightly, despite his nagging worry over Legolas. Turning back to Gimli, he said "You will ride with me this day, my friend. At least until we reach the city. We will have plenty of time on the way to discuss our strategy in trapping our dear friend."  
  
"I look forward to it," Gimli replied with an evil grin.  
  
"Then might I suggest that we be on our way," Arwen suggested, still staring somewhat coolly at Aragorn.  
  
"An excellent idea," Aragorn replied. "I wish to get as close to the city as possible before the rain comes. It seems that while we have been having our little discussion, everything has been made ready."  
  
Even as Aragorn finished his last sentence, Gandalf and the hobbits joined them. The hobbits were already mounted upon their shaggy ponies, and Gandalf led his own mount, as well as Aragorn's and Arwen's. Merry and Pippin were both holding a round piece of bread in their hands, and Merry addressed Gimli.  
  
"Where were you and Legolas at breakfast?" the hobbit asked, almost as if Gimli had committed a mortal sin by not being there.  
  
"I wasn't hungry," Gimli mumbled in response. In truth, he had been waiting to eat with Legolas, but when the elf had disappeared, all thought of food had been forgotten. Now, with the sweet smell of the bread in Merry and Pippin's hands, he wished he still had time to grab something.  
  
"Oh," Pippin said, obviously unable to comprehend the dwarf's statement. "Merry and I brought these sweet bread cakes for you and Legolas, but since he doesn't seem to be here, and you aren't hungry, I guess we'll just have to eat them ourselves."  
  
Gimli turned to them, opening his mouth, but it was too late. With looks of extreme pleasure, the two hobbits had already popped the bread into their mouths.  
  
Gimli moaned quietly and quickly looked away from where the hobbits chewed with looks of complete rapture on their small faces. His stomach rumbled loudly, but luckily no one seemed to notice.  
  
Aragorn reached forward and took Roheryn's lead from Gandalf, thanking the wizard quietly. Gandalf merely nodded. "Are we ready to leave then?" the wizard asked, and Aragorn nodded.  
  
"I will find Faramir and have him tell the captains to give the signal to move out. Gimli will be riding with me today, and I would like you to ride at my side, Gandalf. The dwarf and I have questions we would like to ask you."  
  
Gandalf nodded once more. "If it is about Legolas that you wish to speak," Gandalf said frankly, "then I am not sure how much I will be able to tell you. You must seek your answers from him."  
  
"We intend to," Gimli said dryly. "As soon as we can find a way to pin him to one spot long enough!"  
  
"Ahhh," Gandalf said with a smile. "That, I can help you with. I have some rather long rope in my saddle bags if you wish to borrow it."  
  
"We will try talking to him first," Aragorn said with a sardonic smile, helping Gimli up onto Roheryn's back before swinging up himself. "But if that does not work, I may take you up on your offer."  
  
"Excuse me," Sam interjected politely, "But if I may ask, why are you talking about tying Legolas up?"  
  
"Because he's an elf," Gimli stated, as if that were all the explanation there needed to be.  
  
"Oh," Sam said, obviously not understanding, but deciding to leave the subject alone.  
  
Pippin leaned over and whispered in Merry's ear. "I heard that dwarves have some really strange customs, but I have never heard of anything like this!"  
  
"Good morning, everyone," a cheerful voice called out as Faramir rode up and joined them.  
  
Aragorn turned to return the greeting, but all words died in his mouth when he caught sight of what the Steward was holding.  
  
"Where did you get that?" he asked, his voice strained and barely above a whisper.  
  
Faramir looked at him in surprise, then shrugged. "One of the soldiers brought it to me. Legolas must have accidentally left it in his tent this morning, and I was going to return it to him."  
  
Gimli swore loudly, also catching sight of what the Steward held. Aragorn felt a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach, as he reached out and took Legolas's bow and quiver from the steward. He suddenly wished desperately that he had not let the elf go. It was obvious that Legolas was not acting himself, that he was not thinking straight, and if he should run into any trouble while scouting.....  
  
Aragorn let the thought die, turning and meeting Arwen's eyes. It was obvious from the look of worry on her smooth features that she was thinking the same thing.  
  
Aragorn tensed as he turned to look in the direction the elf had ridden, his hand gripping the wood of the bow so tightly that his knuckles turned white.  
  
*******  
  
Legolas had not gone far from the camp when he became aware of his missing bow. It was a measure of just how distracted he had been that morning that he had failed to notice it's absence until now. Cursing himself mentally for being so careless, Legolas brought Shandarell to a halt, looking back toward the camp.  
  
He cursed again, this time out loud, and Shandarell began to dance beneath him, picking up on his emotion. He had been so distracted by his dream, and then waking to find Gimli, that he had failed to retrieve it from the tent this morning. Afterwards, he had been so intent upon finding a way to avoid speaking to Gimli, that he had altogether failed to notice it's absence. This was truly saying something, for he always carried the bow with him everywhere, and he suddenly felt strangely naked without it.  
  
Legolas finally sighed and shook his head. It was too late to go back for it now. Gimli would assuredly be waiting for him if he did, and although he knew he would have to face the dwarf sooner or later, he preferred it to be later. He was not completely defenseless, for he still contained his two long hunting knives and his extraordinary senses to alert him of any danger. He would just have to be extra careful and alert. Despite the argument he had used on Aragorn, he seriously doubted if the army had to worry about an ambush. This was not to say that he didn't intend upon keeping a keen eye out, yet he really didn't expect any trouble  
  
Urging Shandarell into a fast canter, Legolas continued his journey, heading Southwest, angling away from the mountains, but still heading toward the River Ciril and the city of Calembel. Rolling hills and rocky terrain made it difficult to see far in any direction, so Legolas decided to head toward a tall hill that rose in the distance, higher than all the others. He would be able to get a good view of the plains leading up to Calembel from there.  
  
The clouds continued to grow darker as he rode, and a chill wind caught at his cloak and whipped his hair about him. Legolas did not mind, for the cold did not bother him much. Besides, at the moment, he was reveling in the freedom of just riding, without having to think or talk.  
  
The darkness of his dream was beginning to wear off, and Legolas actually began to look about him, enjoying the view and listening to the sounds of life carried on the wind. A herd of wild deer lay just to his right, their heads coming up and following his and Shandarell's progress as the two rode by. A flock of wild birds flew overhead, squawking and complaining about the coming storm, and Legolas smiled, relaxing even more.  
  
He kept Shandarell at a steady pace, and about an hour and a half later he had reached the base of the tall hill he had seen earlier. He urged Shandarell up the steep climb, and when he had reached the top he looked about him, gathering his bearings and planning his next move.  
  
The river Ciril wound like a silver ribbon to the west, twisting and undulating until it disappeared beneath the dark shadows of the Ered Nimrais. Far to the north, along the western bank of the river, and almost flush up against the mountains, the dark gray blur of the city of Calembel rested. The terrain up to the city seemed to smooth out a bit from the rolling hills he had just passed through. A long, mostly level plain lay parallel to the river, reaching up to the front gates of the city. There were still a great many trees and brush dotting the terrain, but the land lay mostly open and visible.  
  
Legolas studied the area around him carefully, choosing his next course. He had two choices; he could travel directly toward the city, crossing the open plains and taking the same route that Aragorn and the Army would follow, or he could travel directly west until he reached the Ciril, and then follow the river upstream to the city.  
  
The first plan would be the quickest and easiest, taking him no more than a couple of hours to reach the city. It was also the most likely way for the other scouts to take. The second choice would be much longer, for instead of flat terrain, the hills continued to the west, all the way up to the river, and several miles downstream. It was much harder to see what lay in that direction, for the hills still hid much from his keen view.  
  
He finally decided upon the second course of action, more because it would take him longer than for any hope of discovering anything along the banks of the river. He guessed that this route would take him close to four hours, still getting him to the city in time to meet Aragorn. Leaving the high hill, Legolas held Shandarell back to a slow canter, studying his surroundings and keeping an eye out for anything out of the ordinary.  
  
He reached the river two hours later, just as the first big drops of rain came splashing to the earth. He pulled the hood of his cloak up over his head and began the ride north, towards the city. The hills were beginning to even out a little as he made his way further upstream. He allowed Shandarell to pick up his pace a little, knowing that the rain would soon make riding very uncomfortable. The roar of the river and the sound of the rain were almost deafening, and Legolas had to rely on his other senses to keep him from danger.  
  
He had not gone far upstream when he began to develop a feeling of unease. He could not quite place where these feelings came from, but it steadily grew worse the further he rode, making the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. Legolas’s senses had never proven wrong, so he immediately became more alert, looking about him with a sharper eye and bringing Shandarell down to a trot and finally a walk.  
  
His entire body was tense, one hand lying loosely on the hilt of one of his knives. The trees and scrub grew more abundantly along the riverbank, and Legolas searched each branch and bramble for signs of danger. He had gone only a bit further when he became aware of the unmistakable scent of smoke lying heavy in the air, despite the rain. Shandarell smelled it also, and the horse snorted and tossed his head.  
  
Legolas moved slightly away from the river, hoping that with the absence of its roar, he would be able to hear something. They had not come far when they came to the base of yet another hill. Legolas knew the strong scent was coming from the other side. He remembered when he was still young and a portion of Mirkwood had been set aflame. The elves had quickly managed to put out the fire before it spread too far, but the burnt smell had lasted for several weeks. It was this same smell that assaulted Legolas now; old, yet still poignant.  
  
Legolas slipped from Shandarell’s back, ordering the great horse to remain where he stood. Shandarell snorted once more and stamped his foot, but he remained at the foot of the hill as Legolas stealthily made his way to the top, one knife drawn. He threw back the hood of his cloak so that his peripheral vision would not be obstructed. He reached the top of the hill and crouched near a tall tree, looking down into the small valley below him. He remained perfectly still, studying what he had found for several long seconds before he rose and sheathed his knife, whistling for Shandarell.  
  
The horse dashed up the hill toward him, his hooves slipping and sliding slightly in the muddy ground. Legolas replaced the hood over his head to block out some of the water, although he was already soaked from his brief exposure to the weather. He glanced down into the valley once more, where the black ruins of a burned out town lay.  
  
From his memory of the maps back in Minas Tirith, he concluded that he had stumbled upon the ruins of Murwell. The smell of smoke was heavier this close to the burned out town, but there was another smell as well. A darker and more oppressive smell. The smell of death.  
  
Legolas didn’t bother to remount, but instead led Shandarell down into the small valley. The horse neighed and tossed his head as they approached the ruins, and Legolas sent him off in search of some grass to graze on while he went forward to examine the town more closely.  
  
All that was left of the small town was blackened rubble. Here and there, pieces of buildings still stood; a couple of walls that had not collapsed to flame or a stone hearth, standing tall and alone amidst the ruins.  
  
Legolas felt slightly sick at the horrible destruction, knowing that many lives had been lost here. There were no sign of bodies anywhere, and Legolas didn’t even want to think were they all could have gone. Hungry orcs would eat anything and everything they could get their hands on.  
  
He wandered carefully through the rubble, not sure what he was looking for, but unable to just ride on from the sight of such destruction.  
  
Something caught the edge of his vision, and when he turned, he felt his heart clench painfully.  
  
Lying on top of a large stone, looking almost like an offering, lay a small rag doll.  
  
The doll's white dress was surprisingly clean, contrasting sharply with the blackness of the burned out town. Legolas moved to where it lay, kneeling in front of it, yet somehow reluctant to touch it. He could not tear his mind from the image of a tiny blond, blue eyed girl, gripping the doll tightly and laughing with joy.  
  
A strange emotion filled his chest, and he gently reached forward and softly touched the face of the doll. He knelt there, just staring at it for several seconds before he finally reached forward and picked up the small toy.  
  
He was about to rise and call for Shandarell when his sharp ears picked up the soft, but unmistakable crunch of a footfall behind him.  
  
Legolas froze, listening intently. The small sound came again, so silent that without his elven senses, he never would have heard it. And there were more sounds now, almost hidden by the sound of rain, but coming steadily closer, surrounding him.  
  
Legolas resisted the urge to jump to his feet and face his attackers. From the sound, there were quite a few of them, and the element of surprise could very well be his only way of escape.  
  
He once more cursed the absence of his bow, even as he slipped his hand beneath his cloak, clenching the hilt of his long knife. His body slowly tensed, as he waited and listened to the sounds of many sets of feet, walking stealthily, and slowly getting closer and closer. 


	12. A Rainy Day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Fellowship is reuniting, but may face a new threat that is hunting them all.

The rain came down in steady, driving sheets, forming winding streams of water  
that flowed off the surrounding hills.  The ground had long since soaked  
up all the moisture it could, and now the water collected into small, muddy pools.   
The storm was quiet in its intensity, lacking the normal bright flashes of  
lightning or loud booms of thunder.  Low, gray clouds blanketed the earth,  
stretching from horizon to horizon, promising continual rain for the majority  
of the day.  
  
Aragorn wiped a hand across his weathered face, brushing away the moisture that  
had collected there.   He shrugged his shoulders in discomfort as  
drops of water seeped through his soaked clothing and began to trickle down his  
back.  His wet hair clung to his face, and he kept blinking away the drops  
of water that flowed down into his eyes.  He wondered wryly if he looked  
as much the drowned rat as he felt.  Not exactly the way he had wished to  
enter the city, but there was nothing to be done about it now.  
  
Behind him, the army continued to plod on steadily, despite the miserable  
conditions of the weather.  The horses walked with bowed heads, their  
hooves splashing through the puddles of mud the only sound dimly heard over the  
rain.  The soldiers all sat hunched in their saddles wet, cold, and  
miserable.  However, they were still making good time, and Aragorn hoped  
to reach the city in little less than three hours.  
  
The army had stuck mostly to the deep ravines winding beneath the tall hills  
that surrounded them on all sides.  This position inhibited their view of  
what lay before them; however, it protected them from the harsh winds that  
would have caused travel to become a nightmare, instead of just  
uncomfortable.  Aragorn knew that he could trust the scouts to bring any  
warning of a waiting ambush, so he was not terribly worried about not being  
able to see past the tall hills.  
  
Now, however, Aragorn found the hills beginning to thin out, and he realized  
they must be nearing the level plains directly in front of the city.  This  
meant that they were actually closer to the city than he had expected.   
This was welcome news; although he knew that it was this part of the journey  
that would be the most difficult, for once they left the tall hills behind,  
they would have no protection against the driving rain.  
  
He wondered how Legolas fared in this weather, and his hand unconsciously  
tightened around the bow he still held in his left hand.  The elf should  
be nearing the city by now if he hadn’t run into any trouble along the way.   
Aragorn quickly shoved this line of thought to the back of his mind.  He  
reminded himself that Legolas was no child wandering lost in the  
wilderness.   The elf knew perfectly well how to take care of  
himself! Even without his bow, Legolas was hardly defenseless.  Aragorn  
had seen the elf defend himself using no weapon but that of his body, and  
Legolas also had his sharp senses to warn him of any possible threat long  
before it reached him.  
  
Despite these thoughts, Aragorn could not keep a worried frown from his  
face.  If Legolas could make the mistake of leaving his bow behind, what  
would keep him from making some other, more fatal mistake?  
  
Aragorn sighed, once more brushing water from his face.  There was nothing  
he could do for his friend, and neither he nor Legolas gained anything from his  
worry.  
  
At first, he had wanted to send someone out after the elf, perhaps even go  
himself, but he quickly realized it would be pointless.  Arwen was right;  
Legolas could very easily keep from being found if the elf wanted to.   
Aragorn was perhaps the only one with enough skill to track him, but even he  
would have found it impossible in this rain, and besides, his place was here,  
with his men.  
  
A muffled voice at his back drew his attention, and he turned slightly so that  
he could hear Gimli above the sound of the rain.  “I apologize, friend  
Gimli, but you will have to repeat yourself, for I was lost in thought.”  
  
Aragorn could feel Gimli shrug slightly against his back.  
  
“I do not like these mountains,” Gimli repeated grumpily.  “They are far  
too dark even when the sun is shining brightly, and on a day like this they  
appear positively evil!”  
  
Aragorn glanced to his right where the mountains towered above the surrounding  
hills.  He found that he had to agree with Gimli, the mountains did look  
evil.  The low rain clouds clung to the rocky slopes, casting the mountain  
in a dark haze.  Shadows seemed to cling to every part of them, as they  
loomed high above the army’s head.  
  
“I thought you liked mountains, Gimli.” Aragorn said lightly, pulling his eyes  
away from the dark slopes.  “At least I would hope so, seeing as you live  
in one.  Unless, of course, you have decided to give up the mountains and  
go live with Legolas in the woods.”  
  
Gimli grunted loudly and decided to ignore Aragorn’s last comment.  “Just  
because I live in ONE Mountain, doesn’t mean I like them all!  I’ll have  
you know that the Lonely Mountain is much nicer than this dark pile of rocks!”  
  
“So say you,” Aragorn shot back, “but I have heard many tales of your mountain,  
and most of them are not bright and cheery.”  
  
“Tales told by elves, more likely than not,” Gimli snorted.  “They know  
nothing about our mountain and I would think that you would know better than to  
listen to every little thing you hear from them!”  
  
Aragorn chuckled softly, the sound lost to the storm.  “So you would say  
that the elves judge the Lonely Mountain because they do not know enough about  
it?”  
  
“Definitely,” Gimli responded emphatically.  
  
“And what do we truly know about these mountains?”  Aragorn asked  
quickly.  “Except that evil lies in wait somewhere deep in their depths.”  
  
“Isn’t that enough?”  Gimli growled deeply.  
  
“I intend upon learning more,” Aragorn stated, his voice becoming low and  
quiet.  “Especially since I have a strong feeling that it is within these  
mountains that our destination finally lies.”  
  
Gimli grunted once more and cast a silent and apprehensive look towards the  
towering peaks of the Ered Nimrais.  “I thought we were going to remain in  
Calembel and let Malek come to us.”  
  
“That is the original plan,” Aragorn replied, “but as long as we remain in the  
city, we will be playing on Malek’s battlefield with his rules.   
Eventually, we will need to take our own battle to him, driving him from his  
hole and destroying him.”  
  
“That is the part that I like,” Gimli said excitedly, running his hand over the  
shaft of his axe.  “When do we intend to do that?”  
  
“First, we must learn more about him, such as the number of orcs he has managed  
to gather to himself.   Also, where exactly it is that he is hiding  
in that ‘pile of rocks’ as you called it.”  
  
“And how do we find that out?” Gimli asked curiously.  
  
“Gandalf and I have discussed this a little, but now is not the time to speak  
of it.  We must wait until we reach the city and can all gather together  
to formulate our plans.”  
  
“You are beginning to sound like Gandalf!” Gimli grumbled loudly.  “I  
shall wait, but I hope that you have come up with better plans then I myself  
have been able too.”  
  
Aragorn had no reply to this, so he remained silent, peering ahead into the  
storm and trying to ignore his cold and wet state.  Gimli continued to  
shift uncomfortably at his back, and every now and then Aragorn heard the dwarf  
muttering to himself, the majority of it sounding like curses.  Aragorn did  
not know whether Gimli was cursing the weather or something else, although he  
had a sneaking suspicion of what was bothering him.  Gimli didn’t even  
seem to be noticing the rain that ran in virtual streams down his rough face  
and into his long beard.  He kept shifting and peering around Aragorn, as  
if in search of something, and his muttering was growing louder.  
  
“Legolas will be fine, Gimli,” Aragorn said gently, after putting up with the  
dwarf’s restlessness for several more minutes.  “He knows how to take care  
of himself.”  This was exactly what he had been attempting to tell himself  
all morning, but he found that saying it aloud seemed to make him feel a little  
more like believing it.  
  
“He’d better be fine,” Gimli mumbled, “so I can kill him when he returns!”  
  
Aragorn was about to respond to this when Roheryn stepped from the sheltering  
hills onto the long plain leading up to the city.  Without the high hills  
as protection, the full force of the storm hit him like a sharp blow, knocking  
all air from his lungs.  He lowered his head against the wind and driving  
rain and pushed Roheryn into a faster walk.  Behind him, the rest of the  
army also picked up their pace.  
  
“Just remember what I said about finding the right time and place,” he told the  
dwarf sternly after he had managed to regain his breath. “He will be expecting  
us to confront him.”  
  
“Yes,” Gimli said against his back, and then the dwarf surprisingly began to  
chuckle. “I think you are right. We shouldn’t say one word to him until later!  
Let him stew awhile!”  
  
Aragorn thought about this for a while, then shook his head. “I am not sure  
that will work.”  
  
“Oh, it will work,” Gimli replied, a note of cunning in his voice.  
  
Aragorn merely shrugged, and several long minutes of silence followed until a  
small voice at his side drew Aragorn’s attention.  
  
“Are we almost there yet?”  Pippin asked through chattering teeth, looking  
up at Aragorn with a hopeful expression.  The four hobbits, along with  
Gandalf and Arwen had been riding a few lengths behind Roheryn, but now they  
moved up alongside him.  Faramir was riding back near the end of the army.  
  
Aragorn smiled down at the hobbit and shook his head.  “Only a few more  
hours, my small friend, and then you will be warm and dry.  I promise.”  
  
“I don’t think I will ever be dry again,” Merry piped in from the other side of  
Aragorn, “let alone warm!  This weather is sinking into my very bones.”  
  
“I am sure that once you are seated in front of a roaring fire, drinking ale  
and eating a fine meal, you will change your mind,” Gimli stated from behind  
Aragorn.  
  
“A fine meal,” Sam said somewhat dreamily from the other side of Merry.   
“Now won’t that be nice, Mr. Frodo.  No more of this travel rations we  
have been forced to choke down this last week, no sireee.  
  
“A nice portion of roast with baked potatoes sounds nice,” Frodo said  
wistfully.  “Do you think they’ll have something like that?”  
  
“Sure, Mr. Frodo,” Sam answered jovially, despite the rain pounding against his  
small head.  “And if they don’t, I will find the kitchen and make you up  
something nice myself.  I know of a really good recipe for stew that I  
have been dying to try out.”  
  
“Does it have potatoes and carrots in it?” Pippin called out excitedly.  
  
“And little green beans and celery?” Merry added.  
  
“You can’t forget meat!” Frodo called out.  “Will it have soft, juicy meat  
in it, Sam?”  
  
“Of course,” Sam answered all of them, “but what makes it really special is the  
mushrooms!”  
  
“Mushrooms!” the other three exclaimed, Merry actually licking his lips.  
  
Aragorn exchanged an amused look with Arwen.  The hobbits seemed to have  
completely forgotten about everything around them, including the driving  
rain.  Pippin’s hood had even slipped from his head, yet the hobbit seemed  
completely unaware as he listened hungrily to Sam describing his stew.  
  
“…And then the old Gaffer discovered a whole new way to roast them and collect  
the juice afterward to use….”  
  
“Can we stop talking about food,” Gimli interrupted grumpily.  “I will  
remind you that some of us didn’t get breakfast this morning!”  
  
“That was your own fault,” Merry pointed out seriously.  “You weren’t  
hungry, remember?”  
  
Gimli muttered something beneath his breath, and the hobbits prepared to  
continue their discussion, but something caught Pippin’s eye.  
  
“Hey, Aragorn,” the hobbit called out, “is that the Ciril River up ahead.”  
  
Aragorn turned to peer through the rain in the direction the hobbit was  
pointing.  He could barely make out the thin silver line of a river  
winding lazily to the left of where they marched.  
  
“No,” he answered the hobbit.  “This is one of several smaller rivers that  
run from the mountains; the river Ciril is much larger.”  
  
“Oh,” the hobbit answered.  “How do the rivers get past the mountains?”  
  
“They flow right through them,” Aragorn answered.  “Through underground  
tunnels or passageways.”  
  
“Oh,” the hobbit repeated, looking away from the river and apparently losing  
interest.  
  
“I think the rain may be dying down a bit,” Sam commented hopefully, looking up  
into the sky.  
  
“Perhaps,” Arwen said lightly from the other side of the hobbits, “but whatever  
respite we may have will be brief.  This weather will continue all day,  
and the night promises to be starless and wet.”  
  
“This may work in our favor, or against us,” Aragorn sighed.  “If Malek  
decides to attack us tonight, he will have the cover of complete darkness in  
his favor.  Without the light of the sky to aid us, we will have to depend  
upon the fire pits along the wall, and they may be hard to light with all this  
moisture.”  
  
“My, aren’t we all full of light and cheer this morning,” Sam said  
sarcastically.  
  
Aragorn smiled slightly at him.  “There is also the chance that Malek will  
decide not to venture an attack in this weather.  We can always hope.”  
  
“I would not count on this.” Gandalf spoke up quietly for the first time.   
“Malek does not strike me as a patient creature.  He will wish to begin  
his little game as soon as possible.  Such a little thing as rain will not  
keep him from us.  But until such a time, we can only wait and see.”  
  
“I hate waiting,” Frodo mumbled quietly, unknowingly speaking aloud the  
thoughts of all the others.  
  
*********  
  
‘Wait…wait….just a little closer,’ Legolas repeated over and over silently in  
his mind.  He knelt quietly in the rain, listening to the approaching  
footsteps.  He tried to guess the nature of his attackers, as well as how  
many he would be forced to face.  
  
He knew it was not orcs creeping up on him, for he would have smelled the foul  
creatures long before they managed to get this close.  Nor could orcs be  
as stealthy and quiet as this.  He guessed that it was men he was dealing  
with.  Most likely some bandits who had come to loot whatever they might  
from the destroyed town, and had found him and thought him easy prey.  
  
He could not easily guess how many were behind him, the sound of the rain  
muffling the sound of their footsteps, but he knew there were enough to give  
him a fight.  
  
Legolas continued to kneel silently, outwardly appearing completely unaware of  
anything out of the ordinary.  Shielded by his body, his right hand  
gripped the hilt of one of his knives, then slowly and quietly drew it from its  
sheath.  His body appeared relaxed and unconcerned, yet every muscle was  
tense and ready to spring into action.  He felt a familiar fire burning in  
his veins, along with the expectant anticipation he always got before a battle.  
  
Behind him, the footsteps paused briefly, and then one continued forward alone.  
  
‘They are sending one of their member to sneak up behind me and undoubtedly  
knock me senseless,’ Legolas smiled at the tactic.  ‘Just a little bit  
closer…’  
  
The footsteps paused almost directly behind him. There was a brief moment of  
complete silence but for the rain, and then Legolas was moving.  
  
Fast as lightning, he flung himself upright and to the side, twisting neatly  
and gracefully away from where he had previously been kneeling.  His  
timing was perfect, for just as he moved, the cloaked figure behind him began  
to swing downward with a heavy club.  
  
The man let out a startled yell as his prey was suddenly gone from beneath his  
blow.   He stumbled forward, off balance, and Legolas never gave him  
a chance to gain his feet.  Swinging back in as fast as he had dodged, he  
slammed his elbow into the back of the unsuspecting man’s neck.  The  
cloaked figure dropped like a stone, face forward into the mud, where he lay  
unmoving.  
  
Legolas did not stick around to watch the fall.  Once more, he was already  
moving.  He spun and leapt in the direction he had heard the other  
footfalls, his knife extended.  
  
A half a dozen men in light armor and holding short swords stood in a half  
circle in front of him, their eyes just beginning to widen in shock.   
Legolas did not give them a chance to recover.  He used his slight frame  
to knock the nearest man off balance, then grabbed his arm and swung him into  
the companion standing next to him.  Both went down in the mud in a  
tangled heap of arms and legs.  
  
With a yell, the next man attacked, leaping over his fallen companions and  
rushing toward Legolas with sword arm raised.  Legolas watched him calmly,  
then almost lazily swept up his own knife to parry the blow as he sidestepped  
gracefully, the man’s momentum sending him careening past to slam painfully  
against a partially collapsed wall.  The man slid to the ground with a  
groan, blood pouring from his broken nose.  
  
‘Four down and three to go,’ Legolas thought brightly, facing the last three  
standing members of his attackers.   
  
The last three men were being much more careful, having seen the ease with  
which Legolas had dealt with their companions.  They were not rushing  
mindlessly to attack, but were spreading out, attempting to flank him, and  
giving the other members of their party a chance to regain their feet.  
  
Already, the two Legolas had first knocked into the mud were struggling to  
their feet, and Legolas knew that if he waited for them all to flank him and  
attack at once, he would have a much harder fight.  
  
Instead of waiting, he struck out, leaping forward and slashing at one attacker  
with his knife.  The man leapt back, swinging his own sword outward.   
Legolas had been hoping for the move.  He ducked beneath the blade and  
grabbed the man’s outstretched arm, twisting it hard and causing the man to  
drop his blade with a gasp.  The elf’s other hand moved up lightning quick  
as he reversed his knife and slammed the hilt against the man’s temple.   
This one fell as lifelessly as Legolas’s first victim had only moments earlier.  
  
Legolas knew he didn’t have much time.  The two he had knocked down had  
regained their feet, and now four men rushed toward him, hoping to overcome him  
by attacking all at once.  
  
Legolas scooped up the fallen sword of the man at his feet and braced himself  
to meet their rush, sword held in one hand, long knife in the other.  They  
met in a loud clash of steel and flying sparks, Legolas’ sword arm a blur of  
movement that seemed to parry each blow the last second before it reached  
him.  The men broke up briefly, completely encircling him before rushing  
back in for the attack.  
  
Legolas had an important advantage, however.  He was light-footed and  
graceful on the wet and slippery ground, where as the men continued to slip and  
slide in the mud.  Legolas pressed this advantage, pushing his attack  
every time one of them slipped or lost their balance.  
  
He leapt forward and kneed one man sharply in the groin.  His victim  
doubled over in pain, his sword arm dropping limply to his side, but before  
Legolas could finish the job the next man attacked from behind.  Legolas  
ducked, then dropped completely to the ground and swept his feet out in an arc  
that caught his attacker just behind his knees, toppling him forward into the  
mud.  
  
Legolas leapt up and danced away, freeing himself from the circle of  
attackers.  He moved swiftly over to a section of wall that remained  
standing, placing his back in the corner and forcing his attackers to come at  
him from only two directions.  
  
They hesitated, obviously considering the best way to get at him.  Legolas  
used the small break to catch his breath, and he was just about to step forward  
and force the confrontation once more when…  
  
Thunk…  
  
Legolas jerked away from the spot where an arrow had embedded itself deeply in  
the wood a few inches from his head.  He cursed softly at this new and  
unwelcome development.  He glanced briefly past the men flanking him, and  
wondered if he hadn’t just maneuvered himself into a death trap.  All the  
men had to do now was keep him in the corner until their archer managed to pin  
him with an arrow.  Then it would all be over.  
  
He glanced in the direction the arrow had come from and saw a small figure  
standing on a pile of rubble a few yards off, fumbling to fit yet another arrow  
to the string.  ‘Well at least it isn’t a very competent archer,’ Legolas  
thought wryly, ‘if he managed to miss me standing that close.’  This  
thought did little to comfort him.  Competent archer or not, it would only  
be a matter of time before one of the arrows struck home.  
  
The men flanking him seemed to have come to the same conclusion.  They no  
longer pressed their attack, but merely formed a half circle, holding him  
captive in his little corner until their archer could finish the job.  
  
Legolas cursed once more, then glanced up, a slow idea forming.  
  
He dodged to the side as yet another arrow smashed into the wood near where he  
stood.  The wall was obviously the remains of what used to be a long  
hallway.  To his right, the wall only ran a couple of feet before it  
collapsed into rumble; but on his left, the majority of it was left standing,  
running for several yards, clear up to the base of the pile of rocks upon which  
the archer now stood.  
  
Without a second thought, Legolas leapt upward, using the same move he had used  
several weeks earlier to escape the band of orcs.  He lightly caught the  
rim of the wall and pulled himself up, praying the weak structure would be able  
to hold even his light weight.  The four men let out a yell and leapt  
forward, but they were once again too slow.  Legolas raced along the top  
of the wall, feeling it shift and groan beneath him.  However, he moved so  
swiftly, and his steps were so light that it did nothing more than complain  
slightly.  
  
The archer was just beginning to place a third arrow to the string, and he  
looked up startled, just as Legolas launched himself from the end of the  
wall.  The two went down hard, a high yell coming from his victim as  
Legolas rolled on top of him.  He drew back a fist, intent upon knocking  
the hapless man unconscious, but he froze when he got his first glimpse of the  
archer.  
  
Dirty blond hair fell recklessly around a small face that looked up at him from  
large, terrified, green eyes.  Legolas realized with shock that he was  
sitting on the chest of a boy who could be no older than ten years.  He  
had no time to ponder this, for he could already hear the sound of the other  
men racing toward him.  
  
He jumped to his feet, yanking the bow from the boy’s limp hands before  
flipping him unceremoniously onto his belly and grabbing the quiver of arrows  
from his back.  He jumped away, throwing off the hood of his cloak to free  
his vision and spinning to meet the approaching men, an arrow already notched  
to the bow.  He only took a second to find his target, and then he lifted  
the bow and shot off four arrows in quick succession.  
  
The four men running towards him skidded to a halt, their mouths dropping open  
as four arrows hit the ground inches in front of them.  A gasp came from  
behind Legolas, but he ignored it, stringing yet another arrow in his bow and  
pointing it at the four men.  
  
“Don’t move,” he ordered quietly, “or the next ones won’t miss.”  
  
The four men stood gaping at him, weapons fallen limply at their sides, eyes  
wide in wonder.  
  
“Drop your weapons,” Legolas commanded, still holding the arrow taught against  
the bowstring.  The weapon felt small and strange in his hand compared to  
his long bow, but he still held it expertly, not doubting that he could kill  
the four men before they had taken five steps.  
  
The men looked doubtfully at him, then behind him, obviously trying to figure  
out what to do next.  Legolas could see their thoughts mirrored in their  
faces.  They didn’t want to give up the fight, but they somehow knew they  
would die if they didn’t obey him.  He heard the shifting behind him as  
the boy rose to his feet, his breath coming out in harsh gasps.  
  
“The order not to move goes for you as well, boy,” Legolas said sternly without  
even turning his head.  He heard another gasp, then the shifting stopped  
as the boy stood perfectly still.  
  
Legolas kept his gaze and attention focused on the four men before him.   
“I said drop your weapons,” he said once more, a dangerous note entering his  
voice.  “I will not ask you again.”  
  
Legolas stared at the men as they continued to shift restlessly, eyeing one  
another.  He tensed, preparing to release the arrow…  
  
“Stop!”  A loud voice called out desperately.  “Please stop!   
Ralin, Talor, Korin, Matz, do as he says!  Drop your weapons!”  
  
Legolas jerked slightly at this new voice. He turned his head slightly, trying  
to get sight of the owner of the voice without taking his eyes off the four men  
before him.  
  
It did not take him long to find the new visitor.  The man stood upon a  
small pile of rocks, almost directly to the right of Legolas and only a few  
yards away.  He was tall and well built, with sandy blond hair and a  
moustache.  He wore the same armor as the men that had attacked Legolas  
and a short sword hung from his belt.  He held his arms out and away from  
his body in a sign of surrender, as he watched Legolas with intense brown eyes.  
  
Legolas did not like this situation one bit!  He was now surrounded on  
three different sides, and he was finding it difficult to watch everyone at  
once.  To make matter worse, the rain continued to pound down upon him,  
and without his hood for protection the water ran down his face and into his  
eyes, blurring his vision.  Yet with no free hands, he could merely squint  
and try to ignore it.  He backed up a few steps, shifting his body  
slightly so that he could focus his attention on one party, while still being  
able to watch the other from the corner of his eye.  He could still sense  
the boy behind and slightly to the right of him, yet he decided he would have  
to count the child as a lesser danger and ignore him for the time being.  
  
"Please," the man called out once more, hands still spread out from  
his body.  "We mean you no harm!"  
  
"You have a funny way of showing it," Legolas answered dryly, still  
keeping most of his attention upon the four men directly in front of him.   
They had dropped their weapons on the new arrival’s command, but Legolas was  
not about to let his guard down.  
  
"Yes," the man replied seriously.  "And for that I must  
apologize.  This must be a big misunderstanding, for my men would never  
have attacked a High One knowingly."  
  
Legolas's startled gaze flew back to the tall man once more.  It had been  
a long time since he had heard the honorary title of respect for the elves.  
  
"Who are you," he demanded evenly, "and what do you know of my  
people?"  
  
"I am Captain Kenson Brantz," the man replied immediately.   
"My men and I are escorts for the boats that carry goods and supplies down  
the river."  
  
"Merchant guards?" Legolas interjected sharply.  
  
The man bowed, hands still outstretched.  "We are known by many  
names, my lord.  Merchant guards is only one of them.  As to what I  
know of your people…, unfortunately very little.  I have had the honor of  
dealing with a few of the High Ones during my work, but not very often, for  
your kind does not trade with man much."  
  
"Why did your men attack me?" Legolas asked, deciding to cut directly  
to the point.  He still held the bow high and ready and he had not relaxed  
his stance an inch.  
  
"My men did not know who you were," the Captain replied plainly, as  
if that explained everything.  “We were riding upstream toward Calembel,  
returning from one of our trade missions, when we saw the ruins of the  
town.  This place was still standing only two months ago when we first  
left Calembel, and from the looks of it, the damage was done recently."  
  
The man paused, eyeing Legolas carefully for anything he might give away.   
Legolas carefully kept his face blank as he waited for the man to continue.  
  
"When we reached the edge of town, I knew that something dreadful must  
have happened.  I split up my men and sent them in search of any clue as  
to what had happened here.  I can only guess that they found you and tried  
to take matters into their own hands."  
  
"It is as the captain has said," one of the four men broke in  
suddenly.  "We had no idea who you were.  We just saw you  
kneeling there and we didn't know what to think.  We were all sort of  
spooked, as you might understand, and decided the easiest thing to do would be  
to knock you out and take you to the captain for questioning.  We were not  
expecting you to....resist....quite so forcefully."  
  
"A wise soldier always expects the unexpected," Legolas stated firmly.  
  
"A lesson well taught, my lord," Kenson replied with a hint of  
amusement.  He looked to where his four men stood frozen in front of  
Legolas, and then his eyes traveled to the three other men still lying  
motionless in the mud.  He shook his head slightly, "and one I expect  
they will not be forgetting anytime soon!  But I still can only beg for  
your forgiveness, and perhaps your understanding.  My men had no way of  
knowing if you may have played a part in this," he motioned to the burned  
out houses around them.  
  
"And what do you think now?" Legolas asked pointedly.  
  
"That you could have had nothing to do with it," Kenson replied  
without hesitation.  "I may not know much of the High Ones, but I do  
know that."  
  
Legolas studied the man closely, searching for any hint of falsehood.  He  
had a strong feeling that Kenson was telling the truth.  For some odd  
reason, the Captain reminded Legolas of Faramir, and he found it impossible to  
dislike him.  His senses had never lead him wrong before, so he decided to  
trust them once more.  
  
The four men let out audible sighs of relief when he lowered the bow.  The  
captain also seemed to relax, lowering his arms to his side, but still keeping  
his hand far from his sword hilt.  
  
"You may see to your companions now," Legolas said lightly, trying to  
put them more at ease.  Captain Kenson nodded at his men, and they turned  
to go and see to their fallen comrades.  
  
Legolas turned, his attention going for the first time to the boy who had stood  
silent and still behind him.  He found the child staring open mouthed at  
him, awe and curiosity filling his small face.  
  
"And what part do you play in all this?" Legolas asked somewhat  
sternly.  
  
The boy flushed and dropped his eyes, shifting uncomfortably.  "I am  
with them," he finally muttered softly.  "I heard the fighting  
and came to help.  I didn't know who you were either."  He  
lifted his eyes, meeting Legolas's gaze once more, his eyes shining with barely  
concealed excitement.  
  
"He is my son," Captain Kenson said proudly, taking a few steps  
forward before stopping, obviously unsure of what to do or say next.  
  
Legolas nodded, then turned back to the child.  "And what is your  
name?" he asked gently.  
  
"Dar," the boy answered without hesitation.  
  
"Well, Dar, if I give you your bow back, will you promise not to shoot at  
me any more," Legolas asked seriously, but with a hint of amusement in his  
voice.  
  
The boy’s eyes widened and he nodded his head so hard that Legolas thought  
his neck would break.  He reached forward and took the proffered bow, still  
staring at Legolas in awe.  
  
"You are quite handy with that thing," Legolas continued, as he  
reached down and retrieved his knife from where he had dropped it  
earlier.  He sheathed it carefully, still watching the boy.   
"How old are you?" he asked.  
  
"I'm nine," Dar answered proudly.  "I've been practicing  
for a long time."  The boy paused, and his eyes were practically  
dancing with curiosity.  "Are you really an elf?  I have heard  
all about them, but I have never seen one.  How fast can you shoot?   
Can you teach me how to shoot like that?  Did it take you very long to  
learn?"  
  
Legolas was slightly taken aback by the string of questions, but Kenson stepped  
forward and laid a hand on his son's shoulder, cutting off the line of  
questions.  
  
"Yes, I am truly an elf.  My name is Legolas, and it probably took me  
a thousand years to learn to shoot like that."  Legolas smiled down  
at the boy’s complete look of disbelief, then he turned his gaze up to the  
Captain’s.  "You said that you and your men were headed to Calembel?"  
he questioned evenly.  
  
Kenson nodded.  "Yes, my lord.  My men and I have been traveling  
the last two weeks, and we are anxious to be home."  
  
"Did you see anything strange on your journey up the river?" Legolas  
continued to question him.  
  
Kenson let out a grunt and looked about him at the destroyed village and his  
men who were just beginning to regain consciousness.  "Depends on  
what you consider strange," he answered wryly.  
  
"Any large sets of tracks or prints that you could not explain?"  
  
Kenson shook his head, studying Legolas closely.  "No," he said  
quietly, "though I must admit we were not looking very closely.  As I  
said before, we were just anxious to get home."  
  
Legolas nodded, and peered up into the sky, trying to judge how much time had  
been lost to him.  
  
"Do you know who, or what, did this?" Kenson asked, once more  
motioning to the ruined houses around him.  
  
Legolas glanced at him and several seconds of silence passed before he nodded  
slowly.  "Orcs," he said simply in answer to the man's question.  
  
Kenson let out a loud gasp and opened his mouth, then closed it again.  He  
looked about the ruins again, a sick expression crossing his face.   
"The mayor at Calembel must be told of this immediately," he said  
quietly.  "There are other towns nearby who will need protection  
against the same thing happening to them."  
  
"I am afraid that Calembel will need to be seeing to its own protection  
very shortly," Legolas answered smoothly.  
  
Captain Kenson shook his head.  "But Calembel is a large city, with  
high walls.  There would need to be hundreds of orcs to dare an attack on  
it."  
  
Legolas merely looked at him, and a light of understanding began to dawn in the  
captain's eyes.  
  
"I ride as a scout for the army of Minas Tirith that rides to Calembel  
even as we speak," Legolas explained gently. "I am supposed to meet  
them before the city, and I am afraid I have already wasted too much time  
here."  
  
Kenson was just beginning to realize the seriousness of the situation, and he  
met Legolas's gaze without hesitation.  "I ask, my lord, that you  
allow my men and I to ride with you to the city."  
  
Legolas nodded slowly.  "How many men do you have?"  
  
"There are three more who wait with the horses at the edge of town.  
Besides them, there is just us." he motioned to the seven men behind them,  
all of whom were on their feet now, even if a few of them wobbled slightly.  
  
Legolas nodded again.  "If you can keep up, you may ride with  
me.  But I warn you that I will be going swiftly."  
  
Kenson was quick to assure him that they would be able to keep up.  He  
sent two men to go and fetch the others, and then he looked around him,  
obviously confused.  "Will you be needing a horse, my lord?" he  
asked carefully.  
  
Legolas shook his head and laughed.  "No, I brought my own  
mount."  He whistled sharply, and a few minutes later Shandarell  
galloped up, obviously displeased at having to enter the ruined town.  He  
snorted and thrust his head forcefully against Legolas's chest, almost knocking  
him down.  
  
"Let's get started," Legolas said, easily swinging onto the horse’s  
back.  "We have a long ride ahead of us."  
  
*******  
  
The rain was starting to lessen two hours later, as Legolas, followed by the  
captain and his men, left the riverside and crossed toward the city.  They  
met the army on the flat plains before the south end of the city.  
  
Legolas waited quietly on Shandarell's back as the army crossed the last few  
paces toward them.  He was beginning to feel slightly sick as he tried to  
prepare for the unavoidable meeting with Gimli and Aragorn.  
  
He could see the dwarf, perched behind the king's back, and he knew the wet  
weather would not have helped to ease his friend’s temper.  He doubted  
this reunion would be very pretty.  
  
Beside him, he heard Kenson hiss something.  Glancing to his right, he  
found the man staring at him in disbelief.  "The king!" the man  
whispered sharply.  "You did not tell me the army was led by the  
king!"  
  
Legolas shrugged and turned back to watching Aragorn's approach.  He had  
much more serious things on his mind at the moment.  
  
"This is more serious than I thought," Kenson muttered under his  
breath.  
  
Aragorn raised his hand, ordering the army to stop; then urged Roheryn forward  
to meet Legolas.  The elf found himself growing tenser the closer they  
approached.  He fought desperately to keep calm, but his stomach was  
beginning to do flips inside his chest.  He shook his head and tried to  
force the feelings down, reminding himself firmly that he had faced armies  
of orcs before without getting this nervous.  
  
Aragorn had reached him now, and Legolas tried to force his mind to the task at  
hand.  The king called out a greeting, and Legolas responded, risking a  
quick glance at Gimli.  
  
The dwarf didn't look angry, but Legolas knew that did not necessarily mean  
anything.  He yanked his attention back to Aragorn, just as the king  
reached out his arm toward him.  Legolas realized with a flush that  
Aragorn held his bow and quiver in his hand.  
  
He took the weapons, waiting for the reprimand and lecture he was sure was  
coming next, but Aragorn only turned his gaze toward the others riding with  
him.  "I take it your scouting mission went well?" the king  
asked calmly, not a hint of reprimand in his voice.  
  
"Fine," Legolas answered, darting his eyes back to Gimli.  The  
dwarf still did not look angry; in fact, he smiled at Legolas!  
  
Warning bells began to go off in Legolas's head, and it took an effort to draw  
his eyes back to Aragorn, as the man spoke to him once more.  
  
"Are you going to introduce us to your companions?" Aragorn asked,  
his voice still completely quiet and calm.  
  
Legolas could only nod dumbly, wondering what his two friends were up to.   
He had expected them to tear into him the minute they saw him, but instead,  
they were acting as if nothing had happened at all!  
  
"This is Captain Kenson and his men.  We met along the  
river."  He decided it was best not to bring up the circumstances  
they had met under, and Kenson looked relieved that he hadn't.  The  
captain bowed low to Aragorn; quite a feat, since he was still mounted.  
  
"My lord," Kenson said lightly, his voice filled with respect.   
"I and my men are completely at your service, and you may direct us  
however you please."  
  
Aragorn smiled at the man, raising an eyebrow at Legolas, who was still sitting  
tensely to the side.  "Do you know what it is that we face?" he  
asked plainly, and Kenson nodded.  
  
"Legolas has told me a little, although I still seem to be facing  
surprises every time I turn around."  Kenson gave Legolas a sharp  
look, but the elf was paying him no mind.  
  
Aragorn laughed! He actually laughed, and Legolas's eyes narrowed.   
"You and your men will be welcome.  You may not be many, but I assure  
you that every helping hand will be needed."  
  
"Aragorn," Gimli spoke up for the first time, and Legolas jumped  
slightly at the sound, but the dwarf was not even looking at him.   
"From the looks of this wall, I fear we have much work ahead of us this  
afternoon.  Perhaps we should be going, instead of sitting here in the  
rain chatting."  
  
Kenson stared at the dwarf, undoubtedly wondering who he was to be able to  
speak to the king in such a manner.  
  
"You are right, my friend, as usual!  Let us be going  
then."  Aragorn turned Roheryn, signaling the army forward once more.  
  
Legolas just sat on Shandarell and watched them go until Aragorn called to him.   
With a jerk, he kicked Shandarell after them, a stunned look on his face.   
Gimli had not said one word to him!  
  
The rain seemed to echo Legolas's own mood, as he joined his friends and rode  
through the gates into the city of Calembel.  
  
******  
  
"They have reached the city, my lord," the orc captain reported,  
groveling at the feet of Malek.  
  
Malek looked down at him, an evil smile filling his face.  He considered  
killing the orc captain in celebration.  Whenever he got excited the blood  
lust would fill him, and he was very excited at the moment.  All his plans  
were falling into place beautifully.  
  
As if sensing his danger, the orc at his feet began to twist and moan.   
Malek watched him for a few seconds before he reached out with a clawed foot  
and roughly pushed the orc away.  He certainly hoped that the members of  
this so-called 'fellowship' would show more bravery when they were placed  
before him. It would make breaking and killing them so much more fun if they  
resisted.  
  
He flicked his tongue out in anticipation of that moment, and then turned to  
his captains.  "Do you understand all your orders?" he demanded,  
and they quickly nodded. He knew that they did not understand, but they would  
obey, and that was all that mattered.  
  
He looked toward the distant opening of the cave to the outside world and  
growled deep in his throat.  
  
"Soon," he whispered to himself.  "Very soon!"


	13. Kings and Fools

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Fellowship is reuniting, but may face a new threat that is hunting them all.

Merton Fallow Candywell the III was not happy. Nor was he particularly dry, a  
fact that related directly to his sour disposition. He stood in the middle of  
the main street leading to the southern gate of the city, completely ignoring  
the traffic that was forced to swerve around him on the narrow pathway.  
Luckily, the rain had driven most people indoors and the streets were fairly  
empty.  
  
Four servants stood shivering and soaked on each side of him, holding a long  
piece of canvas over his head in a vain attempt to keep the rain off him. Two  
men in rich, flowing robes stood to his right, also huddled beneath the small  
protection of the canvas.  
  
Merton ground his teeth as a gust of wind drove a blast of rain beneath the  
canvas, dampening his silk cloak and tunic further. He cursed and turned to  
glare at one of the servants, as if his wet condition was the man’s fault. The  
unlucky man jumped slightly and almost lost his wet grip on the edge of the  
canvas. Merton turned his disgusted gaze back toward the city gate, his foot  
tapping impatiently upon the stone of the road.  
  
After another several seconds of wet misery had passed, he turned to the two  
men standing beside him beneath the long canvas. “I thought you said they were  
coming,” he snapped impatiently to the first man.  
  
The man’s only response to Merton’s obvious anger was a slight bow of the head.  
“The lookouts upon the wall spotted their approach. They will be here shortly.”  
  
“They had better be!” he muttered quietly, his voice a veiled threat that the  
other man merely ignored.  
  
“Patience, my lord,” the second man joined in, eyeing Merton critically. “It  
would not do to have the king see you so obviously upset. You must at least act  
as if you are glad to see him.”  
  
“I could ACT a lot better if I were warm and dry and in my own home!” Merton  
bellowed. He was speaking to perhaps the only two people in the city who did  
not fear and avoid him whenever possible. They were his top business advisors  
and the only reason that Merton’s merchant business continued to prosper and  
bring in great wealth. Merton was well aware of this fact, as were the two men.  
  
They were both greedy and devious, much like the man they worked for. They  
would do anything to make a profit, knowing that any trouble they managed to  
get into, Merton would be there to bail them out of it. A smart person, upon seeing  
them walking down the street, would do well to keep a tight grip upon their  
money pouch.  
  
“It would be considered an insult if you did not bother to greet such an  
important guest at the gate,” the first man spoke quietly, in a soothing voice.  
“You must be very careful, my lord. I have heard much about this new king, and  
I have come to the conclusion that he is either very lucky or very powerful.  
Until we know which, I would advise that we proceed with caution concerning  
him. If we play our parts right, this visit may be very profitable for us!” The  
two men exchanged greedy looks, and Merton grunted.  
  
"We must stick to the plan, my lord," the second man broke in once  
more. “It would be best to greet the king warmly, make him feel welcome, serve  
him that grand feast you are preparing, assure him that all is well within the  
city and that we have everything under control, and then send him on his way!  
With any luck, he will be gone from the city by this time tomorrow.”  
  
“And if he is not?” Merton shot back at them.  
  
“Then we simply find other ways to profit from his visit.” The greedy look was  
passed between the two men once more.  
  
Merton turned away from the two, and then stiffened as he caught sight of the  
object of his present misery riding through the gates. He immediately  
straightened, pulling his great girth up as tall as he could and smoothing a  
hand down the front of his tunic. Next to him, he sensed his two advisors  
shifting restlessly.  
  
Merton watched as the main army stopped within the high shelter of the walls,  
and a small group broke off from the rest and began riding up the street toward  
him. There were about a dozen of them, but Merton only had eyes for the man who  
rode at their head upon a tall white horse. He knew without a doubt that this was  
the king. How he knew, he could not exactly say, for the man wore no  
distinguishing clothes nor did he wear a crown or any other insignia of his  
rank. His clothes were that of a man used to hard travel and battle, made of  
fine material but still plain and unadorned. A black cloak hung limply down his  
back, cast far enough back to reveal the sword hanging from his hip. In all,  
Merton had seen some of the lesser merchants of his city dress in a more  
distinguished fashion.  
  
Yet despite all this, there was something about the way the man held himself  
that left no doubt in Merton's mind who he was. He sat tall and proud upon his  
horse, and an almost tangible sense of nobility and grace surrounded him. His  
posture did not look forced or put on like Merton's own upright frame. Instead,  
it looked natural, as if this was the way the man was used to carrying himself.  
  
As the small group of horsemen drew closer, Merton found himself gripping his  
hands together in front of him, rubbing his right thumb over his left in a  
gesture he always used when nervous. He forced his hands down at his side and  
waited as the company closed the remaining distance to him, his eyes never  
leaving the king.  
  
When the party of riders at last reached them, the king swung gracefully from  
his mount and closed the last few steps on foot. Merton was aware of the others  
dismounting as well, but he could not tear his eyes from the man who came and  
stood before him. His own eyes met hazel ones and he shivered at the power and  
strength he saw radiated there. He bowed low to the king; his advisor's  
mirroring him.  
  
"My lord," he said quietly, trying to make his voice light and  
unconcerned. "Welcome to Calembel. I am Merton Fallow Candywell the III,  
the Mayor of this city and your humble servant."  
  
His advisors were the ones who had suggested he use this greeting, and though  
the words stung in his throat, they sounded oddly fitting when presented to the  
tall man standing before him. His advisors had also suggested that he use his  
full title when introducing himself. They seemed to think this would impress  
the king, but Merton suddenly realized it would take something much greater  
than a simple name to impress this man.  
  
He straightened from his bow, reluctantly meeting the king's piercing gaze once  
more. Aragorn merely nodded at him, his eyes flickering towards the two men at  
Merton's side. Merton hastened to make the introductions while forcing his  
voice to remain steady.  
  
"These are my advisors," Merton motioned to the two men.  
"Fanchon, son of Domorin and Telfor, son of Mandul."  
  
Both men bowed once more as they were named, and as Fanchon straightened he  
addressed the king in an oily tone. "Calembel is greatly honored by your  
presence, my lord. I hope your stay will be a long and comfortable one."  
  
Merton inwardly groaned and shot the man a glare from the corner of his eye.  
Now that he had met King Aragorn, he desired all the more for the man to leave.  
A strange unsettled feeling seemed to have come over him and he did not like it  
at all.  
  
"I thank you for your warm welcome," Aragorn spoke for the first  
time, and though his words were soft and kind, Merton flinched. The man held  
power even in his voice! "And now, I will introduce you to my  
companions."  
  
For the first time, Merton looked past the king to his entourage, receiving yet  
another shock. It was all he could do not to let his mouth fall open in  
surprise. The king's company was made up of the oddest assortment of people  
that Merton had ever seen.  
  
As Aragorn introduced each member, Merton smiled and bowed respectfully, hiding  
his surprise and confusion. He remembered hearing rumors that the king kept  
strange company, yet he had either ignored everything he had heard or dismissed  
it as nonsense. Now, however, he discovered that at least some of the rumors  
were true.  
  
He swept his gaze over the company for a second time, trying to recall exactly  
what it was that he had heard about each of them.  
  
Standing directly to the right of the king was the man introduced as Gandalf  
the White. Even without the introduction, Merton recognized the man to be a  
wizard, and a flash of fear raced through him. Little was known about wizards,  
and Merton was of the opinion that they were creatures to be feared and  
mistrusted. The fact that the king traveled in the company of one only added to  
Merton’s feelings of growing unease.  
  
Gathered around the wizard were the four small forms that Merton had at first  
taken to be merely children, but who Aragorn had introduced as hobbits from a  
land called the Shire. Merton had never heard of hobbits before and he was  
vastly curious about the small creatures.  
  
On the other side of Aragorn were two more strange beings, though not so  
strange that Merton had not heard of their kind before. The dwarf and elf stood  
side by side, and a more vastly different pair Merton had never seen before. In  
the manner of his race, the dwarf was short and stocky, rising little higher  
than the hobbits. A thick beard flowed down his chest, and a metal helm rested  
upon his head. Merton was not completely ignorant of the race of dwarves,  
having dealt with them often in the course of his trading; yet he had had  
little personal contact with any of them.  
  
Beside the dwarf, the elf stood tall and fair, golden hair falling about slim  
shoulders, his body lean and fit. A bow and quiver of arrows hung from his  
back, and the hilt of two knives were visible at his waist. Even as Merton  
studied him, the elf raised his head and met his gaze. Light gray eyes returned  
his perusal, and Merton suddenly felt as if the elf could see right through  
him, into his mind. He shuddered and quickly looked away. Though he had always  
known of the existence of elves, he knew little more about that race than he  
did about hobbits.  
  
Despite the great differences between the two, there was something about elf  
and dwarf that spoke of a close camaraderie, of long travels and bloody battles  
fought side by side. Merton could not completely understand what it was that  
gave him this impression. It seemed as if there was much about this group that  
served to confuse him, and he didn't like this one bit.  
  
Perhaps the greatest shock of all was the dark-haired elven princess introduced  
as the king's betrothed. Merton had heard many rumors concerning the king's  
choice for a wife, but he had paid little attention to any of them. Now, he  
found himself totally infatuated with her. To say the elf princess was  
beautiful would be a vast understatement. Even with her hair soaked and lying  
flat against her face, there was no hiding her graceful features and delicate  
elegance.  
  
The last member of the company seemed almost boring when compared to his vastly  
different companions. Yet Merton knew this to be false. Faramir, son of  
Denethor, was one of the most powerful men in all of Gondor, and one of the  
most respected when it came to prowess in battle.  
  
Merton suddenly became aware of the silence, and he turned from his private  
musing to find that the king had finished with his introductions, and was now  
looking at him expectantly. For a moment Merton panicked, wondering what he  
should say next, but Telfor stepped forward and saved him from further  
embarrassment.  
  
"My lord," the man addressed Aragorn. "I am sure that you and  
your men are weary from your travels. Quarters have been prepared for your  
soldiers, along with stables for your mounts. As for yourself and your  
companions, a grand feast has been prepared for you at the Mayor's home, as  
well as rooms were you may rest and refresh yourselves."  
  
Aragorn nodded, shifting his feet and glancing about him. A small, but growing,  
crowd had gathered on the streets, watching the strange arrivals with confusion  
and curiosity. "I thank you for your offer, and I accept graciously to  
both the meal and the rooms, though I fear it will be some time ere we can  
rest." Aragorn turned to Faramir. "See that the army is prepared for  
tonight and then join us as soon as possible."  
  
Faramir nodded, turned and mounted his horse and rode back towards the army.  
  
Aragorn turned to Merton once more. "If you will lead the way, sir,"  
he said, sweeping his arm out in the direction up the street. "I fear  
there is much we must discuss while we dine."  
  
Merton nodded wordlessly and turned to lead the way to his house. He  
impatiently waved away the four servants holding the tarp over him. He knew  
this would leave him bare to the weather, but he decided that this would  
perhaps be best while the king himself was left unprotected. Aragorn fell in  
beside him, and the rest of the company followed closely after. Merton found  
himself struggling to keep up with Aragorn's long strides, and he was soon  
puffing and gasping in air, unaccustomed to the exercise. Aragorn noticed his  
struggles and slowed his pace slightly.  
  
"I trust you received my message warning of the danger of an orc attack on  
the city."  
  
Merton jumped slightly at the question, and shot the king a quick glance before  
clearing his throat uncomfortably. "Yes, my lord, we received your  
message," he said nervously, his hands clasping together once more.  
  
"I had expected to see work being done upon your walls in preparation for  
an attack," Aragorn said, his voice holding a note of disapproval.  
"They are sadly in disrepair and will not hold against any lasting  
siege."  
  
"I wish no disrespect, lord, nor do I wish to question your word, but my  
men have seen nothing of these orcs you claim are massing for an attack.  
Perhaps small bands of renegade orcs have chosen to hide out in the mountains  
of Ered Nimrais, but they hardly offer a threat to the great city of Calambel.  
I fear you have wasted both your time and energy coming here." Merton  
waved a hand in dismissal at the end of his last comment, already looking  
before him towards the warmth and comfort of his home.  
  
Aragorn slowed his pace further, eyeing the Mayor closely, and Merton soon  
found himself shifting uncomfortably under the man's intense stare. At last,  
Aragorn spoke. "I am afraid you are mistaken, Mayor. I believe that a  
force much bigger than a mere renegade band has gathered within the mountains.  
I am not even sure of the number of our enemies, but I do not doubt that they  
are many, and they are led by one whose evil knows no bounds."  
  
Merton shrugged. "Even so, they would not dare attack Calembel. And if  
they should, I am sure that the guards of this city would be sufficient enough  
to take care of the problem. There is no need for you to trouble yourself with  
the affairs of Calembel."  
  
"Calembel is a city within my realm and I have every right to trouble  
myself with its affairs." Aragorn's voice had grown soft, and there was an  
unmistakable firmness in his tone.  
  
Merton winced slightly, wondering if he had perhaps gone a little too far. He  
had no wish to make the king angry with him.  
  
"What would you say if I were to tell you that I expect an attack on this  
city this very night," Aragorn continued, his voice still soft and quiet.  
  
Merton looked at him doubtfully, wondering if the king was playing some sort of  
joke at his expense. Aragorn looked back at him, his face completely serious.  
  
Merton shrugged once more, his face showing his lack of concern. "I would  
say let them come and we will destroy them and leave their bodies as a warning  
to the others of their kind."  
  
Aragorn merely looked at him, and then shook his head slowly. "If only it  
were that easy," he said sadly, his voice quiet and strangely distant.  
"If only..." he repeated, trailing off and saying no more as they  
continued their assent to the rich merchant's home.  
  
*******  
  
The Ered Nimrais loomed like a dark giant, its face thrust upward into the gray  
clouds. Nothing moved upon its rocky slopes, and all seemed completely silent  
and still. It seemed, almost, as if the Mountain was sleeping.  
  
This, however, was nothing more than a sculpted mask set to hide the evil  
building and expanding deep within. Though the outside of the mountain looked  
completely calm and still, the inside was roiling with movement. Low grunts and  
exclamations in an evil tongue filled the caverns, as evil preparations were  
made and a malicious purpose was set.  
  
*******  
  
"That low down, overstuffed, pompous, bag of orc guts..." Gimli's  
voice trailed off in a string of very colorful dwarven curses. He was staring  
at the door through which Merton had just exited, and it looked as if he wanted  
to hurl his axe after the man. His face was bright red underneath his beard,  
and Legolas worried his friend was going to burst something.  
  
Beside him, Faramir looked little better. His jaw was clenched and he gripped  
the hilt of his sword so tight that his knuckles had turned white.  
  
Legolas himself was far from relaxed. Anger simmered hot and heavy and he was  
struggling valiantly to control it. The company had just finished holding  
council with Merton and his two advisors, and the meeting had not gone well. He  
felt his rage boiling hotter as he pictured the fat merchant and his two weasel  
advisors. He had to force his mind from replaying the events of the last hour,  
knowing it would only serve to infuriate him further.  
  
Tenseness filled the room, and Legolas glanced from face to face, reading each  
member's reaction to what had just transpired.  
  
The four hobbits looked troubled and uncomfortable, despite the grand feast  
they had just devoured. They kept glancing about them as if hoping someone  
would break the thick, uncomfortable silence that had settled after Gimli’s  
outburst.  
  
Gandalf stood at the far end of the room, a distant and thoughtful expression  
on his face. He did not look overly distressed at what had happened, but every  
now and then he would turn to glance at the door, and Legolas’s sharp ears  
picked up the muttered word ‘fool.’  
  
Arwen wore a slight frown, and she kept glancing at Aragorn, who was seated at  
her left.  
  
Aragorn himself, surprisingly, was the only one in the room who appeared  
completely calm and unconcerned. He leaned back in his chair, his pipe clenched  
between his teeth, his eyes slightly closed; a picture of contented relaxation.  
  
Both Gimli and Faramir were staring at Aragorn as if he had gone mad, but  
Legolas merely shook his head. He had known Aragorn for a long time, and he was  
not surprised at the man’s calm reaction to the situation. In fact, he would  
have been surprised at anything less. Aragorn had an unerring habit of taking  
bad situations and making them work for the best, and he rarely got excited  
over things he could not change.  
  
“I do not understand how you can merely sit there after…after…” Faramir seemed  
at a complete loss as to how to finish his sentence, and he continued to stare  
at Aragorn in confusion.  
  
Aragorn merely smiled slightly at him.  
  
“I am not quite sure,” Merry spoke up quietly, “but I think that man insulted  
you, Aragorn.”  
  
“Several times,” Faramir replied dryly, his voice laced with anger.  
  
Aragorn shook his head slightly. “Nay,” he replied calmly. “In the face of a  
wise and cunning mayor, I would have taken Merton’s actions as an insult. But  
when dealing with a fool, it merely becomes a nuisance.”  
  
“A simple nuisance it may seem to you, but the man had no call to speak to you  
with such disrespect. You are his king, and I would gladly take it upon myself  
to remind him of this fact, if you will but allow me.”  
  
“Aye,” Gimli all but shouted. “And I will aid him in this task!”  
  
"I must agree with them, Aragorn," Legolas spoke up for the first  
time. “The man practically called you a liar to your face! He must learn to  
speak with respect when addressing his king."  
  
Aragorn continued to shake his head. “I may be a king, but you must remember,  
my friends, who I was before I became king. I am no stranger to others treating  
me with doubtful mistrust, for such was my life when I was a Ranger.”  
  
“That may be, my lord,” Faramir interjected. “Yet a simple ranger you are no  
longer. You are king, and thus deserving of much more respect than you received  
this day."  
  
“I agree,” Gimli spoke out once more. “You should allow us to hang this so  
called 'Mayor' by his ankles from the nearest tree until he gains a civil and  
respectful tongue.”  
  
The hobbits looked at Gimli in horror, for the dwarf sounded completely serious  
in his threat.  
  
Aragorn barked out a laugh. “And what would that accomplish, Gimli?” he asked  
the dwarf.  
  
"I guarantee he would serve you without hesitation in the future,” the  
dwarf answered with a gleeful grin.  
  
“Yes,” Aragorn answered. “And what type of service would it be?” At Gimli and  
Faramir’s confused look he continued. “Service born of fear and hatred is  
hardly trustworthy. I would prefer the grudging and doubtful service that is  
being offered now. Peace, my friends, for it is already late in the afternoon,  
and we have much to accomplish in preparation for the battle tonight."  
  
Faramir and Gimli looked far from convinced, but they thankfully let the  
subject drop. Faramir rose gracefully and bowed to Aragorn, as if determined to  
show him the respect that Merton had lacked. "By your leave, lord. Kenson  
Brantz and his men volunteered to help repair parts of the North wall and I set  
them to the task with the help of a few of our own soldiers. I would go now,  
and see to their progress."  
  
Aragorn nodded and also rose. "There is much for all of us to do. We will  
accomplish what we can before nightfall, and then stand ready for Malek’s  
attack.”  
  
"Um, I have a question," Merry spoke up reluctantly, and all eyes  
turned to him.  
  
“Speak, friend,” Aragorn urged gently when the hobbit hesitated. He sat back  
down in his chair, giving Merry his full attention.  
  
“I was just wondering how we are supposed to fight Malek tonight,” the hobbit  
said quietly, then rushed on to explain himself. “I mean, we’re expecting him  
to attack with his orcs, right? What do we do when we have to face him? I  
thought he was impossible to kill at night?”  
  
"Ahh," Gandalf spoke up for the first time. "Impossible to kill,  
my dear hobbit, but not impossible to defeat. You merely have to stay alive  
long enough to injure him so severely that he must retreat to heal himself.”  
The wizard's voice was calm, even cheerful.  
  
"Oh. Is that all," Merry replied in a dazed voice. “And he is still  
after us, right? That means he will probably be hunting for at least one of  
us?”  
  
"Do not worry, Merry," Aragorn said softly. "You will have no  
need to face Malek on your own. All of us will split into two groups. That way,  
if Malek wishes to attack one of us, he will have to face the entire group. I  
think that puts the odds decidedly in our favor. We simply must be careful not  
to get separated from our groups during the battle."  
  
"Who will be in what group?" Frodo asked.  
  
"Gandalf and I have already discussed this," Aragorn answered.  
"Frodo, Merry, and Sam will be in a group with Gandalf and Faramir, while  
myself, Legolas, Arwen and Gimli form the other group."  
  
Pippin frowned. "What about me?" he asked. "What group shall I  
be in?"  
  
Aragorn and Gandalf exchanged glances, and the wizard rose and walked over to  
Pippin. He placed his hand on the young hobbit's back and began directing him  
towards the door. “I have another task for you, Master Took,” the wizard said  
seriously. “And if you will follow me, I will reveal it to you.”  
  
Pippin looked extremely doubtful, and he shot a questioning glance back at his  
friends, receiving only shrugs in answer to his unspoken question. He let  
Gandalf lead him out the door, shutting it firmly behind them.  
  
“I wonder what that was all about?” Gimli muttered, glancing at Aragorn who  
merely shook his head slightly.  
  
Legolas was wondering the same thing, but he didn’t have time to voice his own  
questions, for just at that moment, a slight knock came at the door.  
  
“Come,” Aragorn called out, sitting forward in his chair.  
  
The door cracked open slightly, and a small head poked through, perusing the  
room uncertainly.  
  
“Dar,” Legolas called out, recognizing the boy immediately. He motioned the  
child over to him, and Dar hesitantly entered the room completely.  
  
“S..s..sorry to interrupt,” the boy stammered, walking over to stand next to  
Legolas, his wide eyes fixed upon Aragorn. Aragorn smiled at the boy, which  
seemed to put him more at ease, so he continued. “My father has finished doing  
what he can to the Northern wall, but he is concerned over the gate. He does  
not think it will stand against a rushed attack.”  
  
Aragorn nodded, eyeing the boy curiously. “Do you know much about battle, son,”  
he asked the child gently.  
  
Dar nodded emphatically. “I’ve been guarding merchant supplies with my dad  
since I was six!” he explained excitedly. “I know all about battle.”  
  
“Do you now?” Aragorn asked, then glanced at Faramir and nodded. Faramir walked  
over to the boy and put his arm around the slim shoulders.  
  
“Take me to the gate, Dar, and we will see what can be done,” Faramir  
instructed with a look of mock seriousness. “Do YOU have any ideas of what we  
can do to strengthen it?”  
  
Dar seemed thrilled that Faramir had bothered asking him, and as the Steward  
led him from the room he began to pour out ideas on how to fix the gate.  
  
Arwen smiled delightedly after the retreating form of the child, then she also  
rose and turned to the hobbits. “I saw an armory shop on our way here. If we  
are to fight tonight, then we must be prepared. Perhaps they will have  
something to fit you three.”  
  
The three hobbits stood up and followed the elven princess from the room,  
leaving Aragorn, Legolas and Gimli alone. Legolas glanced at Aragorn, waiting  
for the man to give orders on what else should be accomplished for the battle  
tonight. He was slightly surprised that Aragorn had not gone with Faramir, and  
he was sure that he had some task that needed seeing to. However, Aragorn  
remained seated, his hands folded across his chest and his eyes completely  
closed! Legolas glanced at Gimli and found the dwarf staring back at him with  
narrowed eyes. Legolas glanced back at Aragorn. “I think I shall go and help  
Faramir,” he said quickly, turning swiftly to leave the room.  
  
He had just managed to reach the door when something hurled into the back of  
his legs, flinging them out from beneath him. Legolas let out a shout as he  
toppled ungracefully to the floor, his hands going behind him to soften his  
fall. Before he even had a chance to see what had hit him, a heavy weight  
settled onto his chest, driving all the air from his lungs.  
  
Legolas attempted to gasp in air as he stared in consternation at the dwarf now  
seated smugly upon his chest.  
  
“I thought we were going to try and talk to him first, Gimli,” Aragorn said  
calmly as he rose and walked to stand over the two on the floor.  
  
Legolas glared up at his two friends while still desperately trying to pull air  
into his squashed lungs.  
  
“I owed him one,” Gimli replied dryly, looking down at Legolas in triumph.  
“Besides, he wouldn’t have listened.”  
  
"You're probably right," Aragorn answered with a shrug. He glanced  
down at Legolas and cocked his head slightly. "I don't think he can  
breathe, Gimli," he continued in a conversational tone. "His face is  
turning a rather bright shade of red."  
  
Legolas really couldn't breathe, and he felt all the blood rush to his head. He  
was sure he was about to pass out, and Gimli's face began to blur and dance in  
his vision. Just when black shadows were beginning to creep into his vision, he  
felt the weight lift from his chest, and he took a deep gasp of air.  
  
It took several seconds for him to recover enough to push himself into a  
sitting position, still feeling slightly dazed. He glared at Gimli and Aragorn,  
who now stood before him, but their only response was a slightly raised eyebrow  
from Aragorn, and a fierce scowl from Gimli. The dwarf crossed his arms over  
his chest and stared down at Legolas with an expression the elf had never seen  
on his friend’s face before.  
  
With one last gasping cough, Legolas forced himself to his feet. He had no  
doubt what his friends were up to, and he figured he had only two options. He  
could try to struggle past them to the door and make an escape once more, or he  
could tell them what they wanted to know. At the moment, Legolas was too  
exhausted to even seriously consider the first option.  
  
He let out a loud sigh and turned his back to his friends, walking over to a  
chair and sinking down into it. Behind him, he thought he heard Gimli muttering  
something about a rope. The dwarf sounded disappointed.  
  
"I guess this means you are ready to talk to us now," Aragorn asked  
quietly, moving to stand in front of Legolas. Gimli followed him, still looking  
at Legolas intently.  
  
Legolas let out another sigh, and shook his head slightly. "I don't know  
where to begin,” he answered tiredly, lifting a hand to sweep away a stray lock  
of hair that had fallen around his face.  
  
Aragorn and Gimli exchanged glances before turning back to Legolas. “Then let  
us help you,” Aragorn replied gently, grabbing a chair and placing it in front  
of Legolas, facing the elf. Gimli followed suit, and when they were both  
seated, Aragorn continued. “Before we ever left Minas Tirith, you began to act  
strangely. I could tell that you were not sleeping properly, and I also knew  
that you and Gandalf were hiding something from the rest of us. At first, I  
decided to leave you alone in the hopes that you would choose to talk to me of  
your own accord. However, it soon became apparent to me that you had no  
intention of doing this.”  
  
Aragorn paused, and Legolas glanced at him somewhat guiltily. He glanced toward  
Gimli, but the dwarf’s eyes were on Aragorn. The man continued. “I decided then  
to find a time to confront you on my own, but circumstances interfered and I am  
afraid I never got around to it.” Aragorn shook his head regretfully. “I must  
confess that I placed the matter in the back of my mind. That is, until this  
morning.” Aragorn stopped once more and looked directly at Legolas. “Gimli told  
me what happened,” he stated plainly, watching Legolas for his reaction.  
  
Legolas glanced once more at Gimli, and this time the dwarf was looking at him.  
The anger that had been in his friend’s eyes earlier was gone now, replaced by  
something else. Once again, Legolas had a rough time reading Gimli’s  
expression. The dwarf looked frustrated, concerned, expectant, and tense, all  
wrapped in one. There was something else there as well. Fear.  
  
Legolas quickly looked away, forcing his eyes back to Aragorn. “We have come to  
the conclusion,” Aragorn continued softly, “that whatever is troubling you has  
to do with dreams. Am I correct in this?”  
  
Legolas hesitated for the barest of seconds before he nodded slowly. He let out  
the breath he seemed to have been holding since Aragorn first began speaking.  
“You are correct,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. Aragorn and Gimli  
merely continued to look at him, and so with yet another sigh, Legolas settled  
back further into the chair and closed his eyes.  
  
He began to speak, refusing to allow his brain to think on the words, but  
instead allowing them to flow from him as they would. He talked of the first  
night they had returned to Minas Tirith, and of the dream that had plagued him  
since.  
  
At first, he planned to limit what he told them, only outlining and giving them  
the barest of facts in the hope that that would satisfy them. Yet as he began  
to talk, the pent up emotions inside of him began to build and push at him,  
demanding release. Without even fully realizing it, Legolas began telling them  
everything, keeping nothing back.  
  
Part of him remained horrified that he was speaking so directly, that he was  
leaving himself completely bare and open in front of others. Yet he could have  
more easily stopped a flood from breaking through a dam than stop talking once  
he had begun.  
  
He explained his dream in each gruesome detail along with its direct effect  
upon him and his efforts to ignore or forget the images presented him. He  
shared the fear and horror, and above all the complete helplessness that he had  
felt. He shared how he dreaded even sleeping for fear that the dream would come  
again. He did not look at them while he spoke, but instead studied his hands  
lying limply in his lap.  
  
When he had finally finished, a silence hung heavy in the air. Legolas felt  
drained and exhausted, while at the same time strangely relieved. It felt as if  
a great weight had been lifted from him, and for the first time in many days it  
seemed as if all the tension had eased from his shoulders. He felt oddly light  
and weightless, and thought he could probably sleep for days without worry over  
his dream.  
  
For the first time, he glanced up at the faces of his friends, only to find  
them looking back at him with shocked and stunned expressions. He winced at  
their obvious distress, and wished once more that he had been less explicit in  
his explanation.  
  
Aragorn was the first to recover from his shock. He cleared his throat loudly,  
breaking the wall of silence that had been growing more and more intense. He  
faced Legolas squarely, struggling to keep his face emotionless. “You said you  
have had this dream several times?” he asked Legolas, keeping his voice calm and  
business like.  
  
Legolas merely nodded, not meeting his eyes.  
  
“And this dream is of the same nature as the one you had before?”  
  
Once again, Legolas only nodded.  
  
“Well, that’s good!” Gimli broke in, his cheerful voice an odd contrast to the  
tense look on his face. “We changed the outcome of your first dream, and we  
shall change the outcome of this one as well!”  
  
Legolas gave Gimli a weak smile and the dwarf rose and moved to his side,  
laying a hand on his shoulder in silent support. Aragorn moved forward and also  
placed his hand on the elf’s knee.  
  
“We may not have any specific answers for you, my friend, but I am still glad  
you have shared this with us. That is what friends are all about; sharing in  
each other's burdens. I hope in the future that you will not feel the need to  
hide anything like this from us again.” Aragorn’s voice was gentle, yet firm  
and he gave Legolas’s knee a firm squeeze.  
  
“So what do we do now?” Gimli asked quietly, still standing at Legolas’s  
shoulder.  
  
“We will merely have to be careful and extra watchful,” Aragorn answered,  
rising from his chair.  
  
Gimli nodded emphatically, and Legolas turned to him, a firm expression on his  
face. “Do not think to set guards on me,” he said sternly. “And do not try  
following me everywhere I go in the hopes of keeping an eye on me, either!”  
  
Gimli attempted to look innocent, as if he had not been considering those very  
ideas, but Legolas was not fooled. “I know you too well, my friend, and if you  
should attempt to do this, then I will be forced to tie you up and leave you  
somewhere!” Legolas’s tone was lighter than it had been for days, yet he  
allowed his face to show how completely serious his threat was.  
  
“You can borrow a rope from Gandalf,” Aragorn suggested innocently, ignoring  
the dwarf’s glare.  
  
Outside, a bell began to toll mournfully, and Aragorn glanced toward the only  
window in the room. It faced west, and he could see the orange glow of the sun  
setting just above the horizon. He sighed, and rubbed a tired hand across his  
eyes. Behind him, Legolas spoke up.  
  
“Whatever may happen, I hope this whole mess is over soon.”  
  
Aragorn nodded, the same thought running through his head as the three  
companions turned and left the room.  
  
*****  
  
“It’s not fair!” Pippin exclaimed, stalking up the street from the small armory  
shop where he had found his friends trying on armor for the expected battle. “I  
have to sit around and do nothing, while you three fight a battle!”  
  
“You’re not just sitting around doing nothing,” Merry argued, trying vainly to  
keep pace with the younger hobbit. “I think the job Gandalf gave you is very  
important.” Merry had to pause briefly and adjust the bundle of armor he held  
in his hands.  
  
“Besides,” added Sam breathlessly, “you can’t possibly prefer to fight orcs. I  
myself think it is a nasty business and I am not looking forward to it at all.”  
  
“Do you wish to trade places with me then?” Pippin offered grumpily.  
  
Sam glanced toward Frodo, then shook his head.  
  
“It is not fair!” Pippin repeated, looking totally dejected.  
  
“Come on, Pippin,” Frodo spoke up for the first time. “Merry is right. The job  
Gandalf gave you is very important.”  
  
Pippin cast a dark glance in his direction. “You think babysitting a bunch of  
baggage is important,” he muttered angrily.  
  
“Gandalf already explained this to you,” Frodo replied with a sigh. “He does  
not trust Merton, and he needs someone to keep an eye on all our stuff. He  
doesn’t want them attempting to riffle through our belongings while we’re busy  
guarding the city.”  
  
“But why me?” Pippin exclaimed. “I am a warrior of Gondor and should be  
defending the wall tonight! Why can’t he have chosen someone else? One of the  
soldiers, maybe.”  
  
“If Gandalf used a soldier, it would be obvious to Merton that he suspects  
something. We don’t want to outright insult the man!” Frodo was beginning to  
sound a little exasperated.  
  
“I don’t see why not,” Sam muttered. “The man was more than willing to insult  
Aragorn this afternoon.”  
  
“That is not the point,” Frodo said, elbowing Sam roughly, and pointedly  
looking toward Pippin.  
  
“I’m a warrior of Gondor,” Pippin repeated, his tone still injured. "If  
Aragorn did not want me at his side tonight, he could have just told me."  
  
“Don’t worry, Pip, I am sure there will be lots of opportunities for you to  
fight in the future," Merry said in an attempt to cheer up the younger  
hobbit.  
  
Pippin did not respond to this but continued to plod up the road toward the  
house.  
  
The other three hobbits looked at their friend, realizing that nothing they  
could say would be able to cheer the distressed hobbit.  
  
“Come on, Pippin,” Frodo said gently. “Let's go see if we can grab a bite to  
eat!”  
  
*****  
  
The night was completely black, the heavy blanket of clouds blocking out any  
light the heavens could offer. An unnatural silence hung heavy in the air, all  
sounds muted by the wet earth. The rain had lessened to a drizzle around dusk,  
and now it had completely stopped, adding to the unnatural silence. The normal  
nighttime sounds were strangely missing, as if all of nature lay in tense  
anticipation of what was to come. A sense of evil lay heavily over the land,  
almost tangible in its intensity.  
  
The city of Calembel lay quietly at the base of the Ered Nimrais, looking very  
small and pitiful against the oppressive blackness. Large fires burned within fire  
pits spaced evenly along the city's wall, the light barely penetrating the  
darkness that encased the city. Movement could be seen here and there along the  
wall as soldiers passed before the flames.  
  
Gimli sighed loudly and peered out into the darkness, flexing his shoulders in  
an attempt to relieve tired muscles. Nothing moved over the rocky ground  
leading up to the city, and the only sounds were that of the soldiers moving  
about on the wall. Midnight had come and gone, and Gimli found himself getting  
anxious. He wanted something to happen, anything, that would break the silent  
tenseness that lay over the city.  
  
Legolas sat beside the dwarf on the ground, busying himself with sharpening one  
of his knives. His bow lay on the ground next to him within easy reach. The  
slight hiss of the knife over the whet stone seemed unnaturally loud in the  
otherwise still night.  
  
Aragorn stood a few paces off, Arwen at his side, both peering into the  
darkness. Neither looked tense or worried, merely watchful.  
  
Gimli sighed once more and went to stand next to Aragorn. He peered into the  
darkness, wishing it was not quite so black. Several more long minutes passed,  
and Gimli became restless once more. Legolas had finished with his first knife,  
and was starting on his second.  
  
Gimli glanced at Aragorn, who seemed nothing more than a statue for how still  
he was standing. "Perhaps they will not venture an attack tonight after  
all."  
  
The words had barely left Gimli's mouth when the abrupt sound of horns pierced  
the still night, coming from the direction of the mountains. All upon the wall,  
save Aragorn, Legolas, Gimli, and Arwen, jumped at the sound.  
  
"I could be wrong," Gimli added, drawing his axe from his belt.  
Aragorn drew out Anduril with a ring, just as Arwen unsheathed her own slim  
blade. Legolas calmly put away his knife, grabbed his bow, and jumped to his  
feet, moving to join his three companions. The horns were growing louder,  
echoing and reverberating off the high mountain peaks. The sound was completely  
ominous and dark, speaking of the evil creatures that now approached the city.  
  
"I can hear them coming," Arwen said softly, and Legolas nodded.  
  
"Remember to stay together," Aragorn reminded them all. "We must  
not offer ourselves as an easy target for Malek. If you fear you are becoming  
separated, shout out." They all nodded their understanding, waiting  
tensely for what would come next.  
  
They did not have to wait long. With a final burst of horns, the first wave of  
orcs broke from the shadows and charged toward the city.


	14. Blood and Tears

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Fellowship is reuniting, but may face a new threat that is hunting them all.

Pippin was bored. Not only that, but he was tired, uncomfortable, hungry, and  
thoroughly disgruntled. He was seated upon a rough wooden stool placed against  
the far wall of the hall leading to the rooms the company had been given for  
the duration of their stay. From this vantage point, he could see anyone  
nearing the quarters, while remaining fairly inconspicuous himself.  
  
Several hours had passed since Frodo, Sam, and Merry had left for the wall, and  
Pippin guessed that it was shortly after midnight. For the first couple of  
hours, he had been too wrapped up in anger, self-pity, and worry, to become  
bored. He had ranted and raved about the unfairness of his situation until he  
was hoarse, despite the fact that no one had been around to hear him.  
  
He hated the fact that he could not stand beside his companions in facing  
whatever danger would come this night. It was not that he was particularly  
fearful for them. He knew that Gandalf and Faramir would not allow any harm to  
come to Merry, Sam, and Frodo. Aragorn, Legolas, and Gimli were well capable of  
handling themselves in battle, and though he had never seen Arwen fight before,  
he guessed that if she handled herself in the same manner she did with  
everything else, than she too would be fine. It was not really fear that troubled  
him, but more the fact that he felt as if he should be with them, facing the  
same danger. Instead, he was left sitting here looking like one of the figures  
carved from stone that the old Gaffer loved to put in his gardens.  
  
His righteous indignation had completely consumed him, building and growing  
until he could think of nothing else. He had even tried out some of the more  
nasty dwarven curses he had heard Gimli use earlier. All in all, he had worked  
himself up into a pretty impressive rage.  
  
Yet as the hours had dragged by, his anger had slowly faded, replaced instead  
by a sort of resigned melancholy. Given time to think about it, he had come to  
the conclusion that the reason he had been the one left behind was simply that  
Aragorn and Gandalf had not wanted him to participate in the battle. They did  
not believe him capable of holding his own in the fight, and thought that he  
would only get in the way. So, despite the fact that he was officially a  
warrior of Gondor, they had placed him here, so they would not have to worry  
about him.  
  
A part of him whispered that he was overreacting, that Gandalf’s reasons for  
setting him as guard were perfectly legitimate, and Pippin had just been his  
unlucky choice. Yet in the dark hallway, with nothing but his discomfort and  
hunger to keep him company, Pippin found it much easier to think gloomily.  
  
Now, however, he found weariness and boredom his most troublesome companions.  
He caught himself continually glancing toward the door that led to the room he  
was sharing with Merry, and the soft bed just beyond. He figured that he would  
be just as useful sleeping as sitting. However, he was determined to prove  
himself to Aragorn and Gandalf. He would show them that he was capable of finishing  
any task they set him, no matter how useless. He would sit here until the sky  
turned green if that was how long they wanted him to, and he would not complain  
about weariness or hunger, either.  
  
He stifled a yawn, shifting on the hard stool and peering up and down the long  
corridor. His eyes drifted down, studying the large stones that made up the  
floor of the hall. He had counted them three times and knew that there was  
exactly one hundred and two in this particular hallway. He groaned and stopped his  
eyes in the middle of counting them a fourth time. “This is just great, Pip,”  
he said to himself. “Next, you’ll start naming them all and holding  
conversations with them.”  
  
He rose, stretching stiff muscles, then began pacing up and down the hall, counting  
how many steps it took from one end to the other. Every time he reached the  
cross hallway, he would stop, glance both directions to make sure no one was  
coming, then whirl, and pace back to his stool. He was actually getting quite  
into the game, humming a little counting tune that Sam had taught him ages ago  
and trying to figure out different ways to walk that would change the number of  
steps it took from one end to the other. He decided that it was a step better  
than sitting on his stool and moaning about his condition, and at least he did  
not have to worry about falling asleep.  
  
Pippin cleared all outside thought from his mind and concentrated solely on  
figuring out a way to make it from one end of the hall to the other, skipping  
only two stones at a time, in only 22 steps instead of the 26 he had  
continually come up with. He pursed his lips and studied the layout of the  
stones leading up to the base of his stool, hands on his hips and brow wrinkled  
in thought.  
  
After several seconds of silent contemplation, he thought he had found a course  
that would get him to the other end with the desired number of steps. He lifted  
his foot and was about to start forward when a voice spoke up from behind him.  
  
“What are you doing?”  
  
Pippin whirled, his heart nearly jumping through his throat, his hand flying to  
the hilt of the short sword he wore at his side.  He fiercely berated  
himself for becoming so distracted that he failed to notice anyone approaching.  
  
A young boy stood in the cross way directly before Pippin, eyeing the hobbit  
with undisguised curiosity.  Pippin recognized the boy from the meeting  
earlier, and he tried to recall the name Legolas had used while steadying his  
breathing and calming his heart.  
  
"I didn't mean to scare you," the boy said in way of an apology,  
shrugging his thin shoulders and glancing to where Pippin's hand still rested  
upon the hilt of his sword.  
  
"You did not scare me," Pippin said quickly, removing his hand  
from the hilt of his blade.  "You just startled me, that's all,"  
he added, his tone defensive.  He studied the boy intently for a few  
seconds, recalling that Legolas had called him Dar.  
  
For his part, the boy stared back at Pippin just as intently, his head cocked  
slightly to one side, the curious expression never leaving his small face.  
  
Pippin frowned, crossing his arms over his chest.  "You should be  
careful about sneaking up on people," he stated firmly, attempting to look  
down at the boy despite the fact that they were almost the same height.   
"Especially Knights of Gondor.  I could have lobbed your head from  
your shoulders before I realized it was you!"  
  
Dar's eyes grew wide, and Pippin regretted his harsh words, thinking that he  
had frightened the boy.  Dar's next words, however, allayed his fear.  
  
"You're a Knight of Gondor?" the boy whispered softly, his wide eyes  
filled with awe and excitement.  
  
Pippin merely nodded, feeling a surge of pride run through him at the boy's  
obvious admiration.  He straightened to his full height, throwing his  
shoulders back proudly.  
  
"I saw you riding with the king," Dar stated, still staring at Pippin  
with excitement.  Suddenly, he frowned, doubt flickering across his small  
face.  "Aren't you a little short to be a knight?" he questioned  
boldly, looking Pippin's small frame up and down.  "And a little  
young?" he added almost as an afterthought.  
  
"I'm probably as old as your father," Pippin stated, ignoring the  
boy's incredulous look. "And as for being short, I'm a hobbit.  All  
hobbits are short."  He placed his hands on his hips and gave Dar a  
serious look.  "However," he continued, "Do not  
underestimate us just because we are small.  Even the mighty Sauron knew  
of hobbits and was wary of us."  It was true, Pippin decided,  
even if it was for reasons other than what he was insinuating.  
  
Dar nodded slowly, some of the awe returning to his face, though he was still  
not completely convinced.  "If you are a Knight of Gondor, why aren't  
you out on the wall with the others?" he asked curiously, a hint of doubt  
still lingering in his voice.  
  
"I am on a secret mission," Pippin replied without hesitation,  
nodding his head firmly.  
  
"A secret mission?" The excitement was back in Dar's voice and eyes,  
and he leaned forward eagerly.  "What secret mission?" he asked  
enthusiastically.  
  
"It wouldn't be a secret if I told you, now would it," Pippin replied  
mysteriously, winking at the young boy.  
  
"Please tell me," Dar begged.  "I promise I won't tell a  
soul!  Not even my dad."  
  
"I don't know," Pippin said, shaking his head doubtfully.  
  
"Please," Dar continued to beg, practically bouncing up and down on  
his toes in his eagerness.  
  
"What if someone captures you and tortures you," Pippin asked  
seriously.  
  
Dar's eyes grew even wider if that were possible, but he shook his head  
wildly.  "I still wouldn't tell them!" he stated bravely.  
  
"Well," Pippin said, pretending to wrestle with indecision.   
"I suppose I could tell you as long as you swear to remain silent."  
  
"I do!  I swear!"  Dar cried out, nearly exploding from his  
curiosity.  
  
Pippin reached forward and gripped the boy's shoulder, lowering his voice to a  
conspiratorial whisper.  "Did you know that a wizard travels with the  
king?" he asked softly, his voice secretive.  
  
Dar nodded.  "I saw him," he said.  "He wears a really  
funny pointed hat and has a lot of white hair."  
  
"That's him," Pippin nodded, and then looked Dar squarely in the  
eyes.  "Did you know that he is the most powerful wizard in all of  
Middle Earth?”  
  
The child’s eyes practically glowed with wonder.  “Really?” he asked.  
  
“Yep,” Pippin answered.  “My mission is to guard some very powerful  
objects the wizard has brought with him.  The orcs know of these objects  
and will attempt to steal them.  I am the last defense if the orcs manage  
to break through.”  
  
"You have to guard them all by yourself?" Dar asked, still  
excited.  "What happens if a lot of orcs come here?"  
  
Pippin shrugged.  "That is why they had to put a warrior of Gondor as  
guard.  Any orcs that try to get past me will find themselves impaled upon  
my trusty sword."  
  
Dar was left speechless with awe, and then he suddenly burst out.   
"Can I help you?"  He pulled a short knife from his tunic  
pocket, the blade no longer than three inches, and held it up for Pippin's  
scrutiny.   "See," he said proudly. “I can fight really  
good, just ask my dad.  I’ve helped him guard the merchant’s goods since I  
was six.”  
  
“I don’t know,” Pippin said seriously.  “This job is pretty dangerous.”  
  
“Please,” Dar begged once more.  “I really can fight.  I’m really  
good with a bow and arrow too.  Even Legolas said so.”  
  
Pippin pretended to think about it for a while, then nodded.  “I suppose  
you can help.  Why don’t you go down to the other end of the hall and let  
out a whistle if you see anyone coming.”  
  
Dar hesitated, and Pippin looked at him expectantly.    The lad  
looked somewhat embarrassed as he looked at Pippin.  At last he murmured,  
“I don’t know how to whistle.”  
  
“Oh,” Pippin said, somewhat at a loss.  “Just let out a little shout  
then.”  
  
“Alright!” the boy yelled, and then took off at a run toward the other end of  
the crossway.  
  
“Hey!” Pippin yelled after him.  “Weren’t you ever taught not to run with  
a knife in your hand?”  
  
Dar slowed his pace, waving back at Pippin over his shoulder before positioning  
himself at the end of the hall.  
  
Pippin shook his head and began his slow march up and down his own section of  
the hallway.  Entertaining the boy had helped take his mind off his own  
troubles.  He actually let himself pretend that what he told the boy was  
the truth, and that he was the last defense of a great and powerful object.   
Who really knew what the wizard kept hidden within his belongings.  
  
Long minutes passed in silence while Pippin patrolled his hall with shoulders  
back and head held high, eyes perusing every shadow for a hidden danger.   
He was getting quite into the game, and was once again startled when Dar’s  
small shout came from down the hall.  
  
He glanced toward the lad, and found Dar racing down the hall towards him, his  
face flushed with excitement.  “Someone is coming,” the boy panted  
breathlessly when he reached Pippin.  
  
Pippin nodded and boldly placed his hand upon his sword.  “Be ready,  
Dar.  If this is a spy of the enemy, we will have to dispatch him quietly  
and quickly before he can warn the others!”  
  
Dar nodded, still clutching his small knife in his hand.  
  
A few seconds later, the object of their discussion appeared around the  
corner.  He was peering behind him, as if afraid of being followed, and  
his steps were slow and cautious.  When the man turned and spotted Pippin  
and Dar, he stopped cold, his face registering frustration before it quickly  
went blank.  
  
Pippin’s eyes narrowed as he recognized one of Merton’s advisors, and his  
hand tightened unconsciously on his sword.   
  
The man hesitated, looking almost as if he was about to turn around and go back  
the way he had come. At last, he seemed to make up his mind, and continued  
forward toward Pippin and Dar.  
  
Pippin watched him approach, suspicion and mistrust flaring to life within  
him.  He remembered Gandalf’s warning to watch out for Merton or one of  
his men snooping around, and he had never seen anyone look more like they had  
been caught somewhere that they shouldn’t be.  
  
When the advisor reached them, he looked the two up and down, arching a smooth  
eyebrow at Pippin’s hand upon his sword hilt. Pippin looked calmly back at him  
and didn’t remove his hand.  “Isn’t it past your bedtime,” the man said in  
an oily sweet voice with a hint of mockery.  “Everyone else is either out  
upon the wall or already retired.”  
  
“Obviously not everyone,” Pippin responded dryly, pointedly staring at the man.  
  
The advisor gave him a sickly grin that looked more like a grimace.  “I  
often walk the halls at night when I find that I cannot sleep,” he said  
innocently.  
  
Pippin grunted, running his eyes over the man’s fully robed form.   
“Perhaps in the future, you should try more comfortable bed clothes,” he  
answered boldly.  
  
The advisor’s smile faltered, and his eyes narrowed.  “I am first advisor  
to the lord of this house,” he grated out through clenched teeth.  “I have  
every right to go where I please, when I please.  Who are you, small one,  
to question my actions?”  
  
Anger flashed in Pippin’s eyes, but before he could answer the man, Dar spoke  
up from behind him.  “He is a Knight of Gondor!”  
  
The man seemed startled at the boy’s outburst, and he glanced behind Pippin at  
Dar.  Then he began to laugh, great gusts of false mirth.  He looked  
back at Pippin, still roaring with laughter.  “You, a Knight of Gondor?”  
he gasped between wild chuckles.  
  
Pippin looked back at him and said nothing, his face completely blank.  
  
“Do you even know how to use that blade at your side, small one,” the man  
asked, finally controlling his laughter and looking down at Pippin with a  
malicious grin.  “I am afraid I will have to tell the king that I have  
found one of his brave knights hiding within the house while he boldly awaits  
to do battle with ghosts.”  
  
Pippin narrowed his eyes, his fist clenching tightly around the hilt of his  
sword. He was angry at the man’s mocking tone and insults, but surprisingly he  
found that he was mostly disgusted. “Only a fool speaks of something he knows  
nothing of,” he said quietly, his voice filled with loathing. “I have no  
stomach to tolerate your foolishness, so you will leave now, or I will have  
this boy teach you a lesson in courtesy.”  
  
The man stared at Pippin in shock, his face turning an ugly shade of red. “How  
dare you…” he spluttered, unable to finish his sentence.  
  
Pippin merely grunted and took a threatening step toward the man, drawing his  
sword from his sheath.  
  
The advisor eyed the blade warily, raising his hands slightly. “You will regret  
speaking to me thus,” he hissed, before turning and striding swiftly down the  
hall.  
  
Pippin watched him go, somewhat shocked at his own actions. He turned to Dar,  
but before he could say anything to the boy, bells began to toll throughout the  
city, the sound loud even within the house.  
  
Pippin lowered his blade, his face suddenly pale. He knew what the bells  
signified. Outside, the battle had begun.  
  
******  
  
Merton was lying comfortably in his large bed, sipping an expensive wine that  
he always kept near at hand.  He was completely relaxed, his open window  
letting in the cool evening breeze. He sank back into his soft pillows closing  
his eyes and sighing contentedly.  
  
A few seconds later, he jerked upright, the sound of tolling bells filling his  
room. His wine cup slipped from his nerveless fingers, spilling the expensive  
liquid down the front of his silk bedclothes. He stared unseeingly at the red  
stain, his entire body frozen in shock. Just as Pippin had heard and understood  
the meaning behind the bells, Merton also knew what they signified. His  
body began to tremble, and he fearfully slipped from his bed to lie huddled on  
the ground.  
  
Merton tried to call out to someone, afraid of being alone, but his voice was  
not working.  Whimpering in fear, he crouched beside his bed, too  
frightened to even close his window and shut out the dreadful noise of battle.  
  
******  
  
Legolas stood silent and still upon the wall, watching the hordes of orcs rushing  
toward the city.  Behind him, the bells of the city began their frantic  
toll, warning the people to remain indoors and hidden.  Legolas was aware  
of his companions standing beside him, but his attention was mostly on the  
approaching army of vile creatures.  
  
There were hundreds of them, fierce and intent only upon the death and  
destruction of everything that stood in their path.  They charged toward  
the wall with siege towers, crude ladders, grappling hooks, and battering ram;  
anything that would help them gain access to the city.  The orc horns had  
fallen silent, replaced by foul war cries and the low rumble of thousands of  
feet rushing forward over the uneven ground.  
  
Legolas’s keen eyes scanned their dark ranks in search of any sign of Malek,  
even as his hand went to his quiver and freed an arrow.  He notched the  
arrow to his bow, pulling back and releasing in one smooth motion, sending the  
dart on a deadly course toward an overzealous orc who had pushed a little too  
far ahead of his companions.  Even before his first shot had landed,  
Legolas had released yet another arrow, then another, his movements smooth and  
continuous, dealing death to all he aimed at.  
  
The orcs soon came into range of the rest of the archers upon the wall, and  
Legolas’s arrows were joined by a hail of other shafts, felling one orc after  
another.  Yet still they came on, their howls chilling the blood.   
The wall seemed to shudder slightly, as the first wave of orcs crashed into  
it.  Legolas and the other archers continued to rain arrows down on the  
attackers, focusing on the orcs carrying the large battering ram.   
However, for every orc that fell, two more took its place and with a mighty  
crash, the large beam slammed into the wood of the gate.  
  
Up on the wall, the defenders could feel the stone shudder, and Aragorn  
exchanged a worried glance with Gimli.  The gate had been reinforced with  
large beams of wood, but they both knew it couldn’t take too much more of the  
heavy abuse.  They were not given long to ponder this, for even as the ram  
continued to slam into the gate, other orcs began attempting to scale the wall  
using grappling hooks and ladders.  
  
Aragorn, Gimli, and Arwen joined the rest of the defenders in cutting down the  
hooks and pushing away ladders as Legolas continued to fire deadly arrows into  
the orcs at the gate.  He was swiftly running out of arrows, and he knew  
he would soon have to give up his bow for the sword at his side.  It was  
not his first choice of weapon, but his knives would not hold up against an orc  
scimitar.  
  
Pulling the last two arrows from his quiver, Legolas took a step to his side  
and thrust the tips into the nearest fire pit.  The arrows immediately  
burst into flame, and without hesitation he shot them both at once into the  
large wooden ram beneath him.  He then grabbed the metal fire grill in  
both hands, ignoring his burning palms, and poured its contents after his  
arrows.  The orcs below him let out a howl, dropping the ram and jumping  
away from the fire raining down upon them.  They quickly regrouped, but  
Legolas’s plan had worked, and the great wooden trunk began to burn, the fire  
growing and spreading rapidly.  The orcs tried to beat out the flames, but  
the archers continued to rain arrows down on them, impeding their progress.  
  
Legolas smiled grimly, swinging his bow onto his back and pulling his sword  
from its sheath.  He glanced about him then, taking in the extent of the  
battle.  Despite the defenders best efforts, several orcs had managed to  
gain the upper wall and were fiercely doing battle.  A siege tower full of  
orcs had made it to the wall, with a second close behind it.  Orcs poured  
from the towers onto the wall, crashing into the line of defenders that raced  
to confront them.  Aragorn, Gimli, and Arwen were already caught up in the  
fighting, pressing the orcs back, their blades blackened by dark blood.  
  
Legolas stepped forward, intending to join his friends, but a movement from the  
corner of his eye caught his attention.  He turned, just as an orc head  
appeared over the edge of the wall, sneaking up a ladder that had been missed  
by the busy soldiers.  Legolas swung around, kicking out fiercely, his  
boot landing between the ugly creature’s eyes.  The orc howled, toppling  
from the wall, and Legolas threw his weight against the crude ladder, pushing  
it back away from the wall.  
  
He turned once more, glancing in the direction he had last seen his friends,  
but they were hidden from view by the battling forms of man and beast.   
Several orcs had broken through the line of defenders, and at the sight of the  
elf standing before them, they let out a cry and raced forward.  Legolas  
lifted his sword and moved to meet them.  
  
******  
  
The fire of battle burned strong and true though Gimli’s veins as he hacked  
left and right with his axe.  Orcs shied away before his wrath, and those  
not swift enough quickly fell beneath his blade.  Yet more and more orcs  
were gaining the wall, and the defenders were caught up in the struggle around  
them.  
  
Gimli yanked his axe free from the chest of an orc and was given a brief  
reprieve to catch his breath and glance around him for his companions.   
Aragorn and Arwen fought side by side only a few paces away, and Gimli allowed  
himself a moment to watch their graceful movements.  The two seemed as  
perfect a pair in battle as anywhere else, their movements precise and  
complimentary to each other.  Aragorn ducked an orc scimitar just as Arwen  
swung her sword above him, taking off the unlucky creature’s head.  
  
Gimli turned from watching them to search for Legolas.  He had not seen  
the elf in quite some time, and he worried that they had somehow allowed  
themselves to become separated.  
  
An orc rushed toward him, and Gimli sloppily swung his axe, cutting through the  
creature’s armor and into flesh beneath.  He did not bother watching the orc  
fall, but continued running his eyes frantically through the melee in search of  
his friend.  “Legolas!” he shouted, but this merely managed to draw the  
orcs attention to him, and he was soon desperately fighting off several large  
brutes.  
  
One of the creatures swung a blood soaked sword at the dwarf’s head.   
Gimli easily ducked the blade, but he was not expecting the gauntleted fist  
that smashed into the side of his helm.  He stumbled back, barely managing  
to duck the second swing from the creature.  This move threw him off  
balance, and he fell to his knees, blindly throwing his axe up to protect  
against the blow he knew would be coming.  
  
The orc howled in glee, believing he had managed to defeat the dwarf, but  
before he could land his final blow, a knife blossomed in his throat.  The  
creature barely had time to look surprised, dark blood flowing from the wound,  
before he toppled over backwards.  
  
Gimli grunted, lowering his axe from over his head just as his friend appeared  
before him.  Legolas quickly dispatched another orc who had thought to  
take advantage of the fallen dwarf, then turned and looked down at him.   
“Now is not the time to be laying around, my friend," Legolas said, his  
eyes twinkling mischievously.  "If you need, I shall fetch a basin of  
water to pour over your head and revive your senses."  
  
Gimli glared up at him, saying nothing and holding out his hand.  Legolas  
clasped his arm and pulled him to his feet, his eyes turning serious as he  
looked Gimli up and down.  "Are you hurt?" he asked softly.  
  
Gimli shook his head.  "Nay, and you?"  
  
Legolas also shook his head, the mischievous light returning to his eyes.   
He glanced about him at the battle still raging fiercely around them.   
"You had better get busy, Gimli, if you wish to catch up to me."  
  
Gimli gave Legolas a questioning look, so the elf explained himself.  
  
"I slew many of the enemy before they reached the gate, and my number has  
grown in the last few minutes.  You will have to work hard indeed if you  
wish to match my number."  
  
The light of understanding dawned in Gimli's eyes, and with it a look of  
challenge.  He slashed at an orc who drifted too close, threatening to  
interrupt their conversation, before he turned back to Legolas who was still  
looking at him expectantly.  
  
"So," Gimli said lightly, "You wish to continue our little  
game?"  
  
"Only if you feel up to the task," Legolas replied immediately,  
grinning wildly at Gimli.  
  
Gimli snorted loudly, looking the elf up and down.  "You might want  
to stop talking and start fighting if you wish to sport a chance of winning  
against me!" he retorted boldly, returning the elf's crazy grin.  
  
Legolas bowed to him dramatically, then spun, neatly swinging his sword to end  
the life of an orc who had been attempting to sneak up on him.  The elf did not hesitate, but scooped to  
retrieve his knife from the orcs throat and press forward into battle once  
more.  
  


"Show off," Gimli grunted, charging into a knot of approaching orcs.  
  
******  
  
Aragorn glanced around him, sweat and blood soaking his tunic, his breath coming in hard gasps.  A pile of dead orcs lay before him, staining the stone of the wall with their dark blood.  He was aware of screams and shouts all about him, but at the moment, no orcs were near at hand.  Glancing around, he realized that most of the foul creatures had been driven from the wall, and those that had not been were slowly being overwhelmed by the city’s defenders.  
  
Distant horns were blaring a retreat, and the remaining orcs still on the ground began a hasty withdrawal back towards the mountains.  Aragorn frowned.  He had seen no sign of Malek, and this fact slightly unsettled him.  He had expected the dark creature to make an appearance, and an odd sense of foreboding settled upon him.  This battle seemed to have ended just a little too easily.  
  
He saw Gimli and Legolas only a couple of paces away, fighting side by side with several other soldiers against one of the few remaining groups of orcs still upon the wall.  They seemed to have the battle well in hand, and the number of orcs were quickly dwindling.  
  
Shaking his head and trying to push away his feelings of unease, Aragorn turned to Arwen.   His eyes carefully scanned the elf princess up and down, searching for any sign of injury to her slight frame.  
  
Feeling his intense gaze upon her, Arwen looked up and met his eyes.  She smiled and took a step toward him.  “I am fine, my love,” she said softly, reaching out and gently touching his arm.  
  
Aragorn nodded, but did not stop his perusal.  Arwen’s light armor was stained with the blood of the orcs she had slain, her drawn blade covered in their gore.  Her hair, which she had placed in a tight braid before the battle began, was now coming loose, tendrils poking out everywhere.  Aragorn could not keep his eyes from her, wondering how she could look so disheveled and still so beautiful.  
  
"The battle seems to have gone in our favor tonight," Arwen said cheerfully, squeezing his arm lightly to assure him that she was fine.  
  
"Yes," Aragorn nodded.  "Perhaps a little too easily.  I hope that Gandalf, Faramir, and the hobbits fared as well as we did.  I do not like the fact that Malek has not shown himself, and I only hope that they did not run into the foul creature."  
  
"They will be fine," Arwen assured him lightly.  "Now should we go and collect Legolas and Gimli?"  
  
Aragorn nodded, taking her hand in his and making his way toward the dwarf and elf.  Even as they approached, Gimli dispatched the last of the orcs with a quick swing of his axe.  
  
"Hah," the dwarf shouted triumphantly, stepping away from the falling orc.  "Thirty-two!  Beat that, elf!"  
  
Aragorn wondered for a second what Gimli was talking about, but Legolas's response to the dwarf's outburst answered his unspoken question.  
  
"You will have to do better than that, master dwarf." Legolas responded gaily.  "That," he pointed to an orc that lay near his feet, "was number thirty-seven."  
  
Aragorn and Arwen reached the two, but neither seemed aware of their presence.  Gimli glared at Legolas, shaking his head vehemently.  "Are you sure," he asked skeptically.  
  
"I do not know about dwarfs," Legolas responded arrogantly, "but elves are taught how to count from an early age."  
  
"And then they need thousands of years to perfect the skill," Gimli retorted.  "I still think you made an error somewhere!"  
  
Legolas opened his mouth to respond to this, but Arwen interrupted.  "If you two are arguing about the number of orcs you have slain, I am afraid I have beaten you both!  I felled at least forty of the ugly creatures."  
  
Legolas and Gimli turned and stared at her, at last becoming aware of the presence of the others.  Legolas saw a familiar mischievous light in the elf princess's eyes, and he slowly shook his head.  Gimli muttered something else about the elve’s ability to count, and Arwen sent him a devilish grin.  Legolas was about to ask her if she was serious, but once more he was interrupted before he could say anything.  
  
"I am not sure our battle is yet over," Aragorn said softly.  "Look!"  Three sets of eyes followed his pointing finger.  
  
The orcs had retreated about two hundred yards before stopping and regrouping.  Their black forms were nearly lost within the nighttime darkness, as they stood silent and still facing the city, appearing to be waiting for something.  Once more, Aragorn felt a shiver of foreboding run down his spine.  
  
"What are they waiting for?" Gimli muttered.  "Surely they do not intend to attack once more."  
  
"I do not know," Legolas began, "but..." The elf cut off abruptly, his body stiffening.  On the other side of Aragorn, Arwen let out a soft gasp of dismay.  
  
Aragorn turned to them, only to find that both of their faces had turned a deathly white. Obviously, their far seeing eyes saw something that the others were yet unable to. Aragorn followed their gaze, trying vainly to peer into the darkness at the base of the Ered Nimrais.  
  
“What is it?” Gimli asked Legolas softly, but the elf did not seem to hear him and did not answer.  
  
Aragorn tensed, straining his eyes even more, believing he had seen movement within the dark shadows beneath the mountains. He stepped forward, gripping the edge of the wall and leaning as far forward as he could without fear of falling. He was now certain that he had seen movement, and a lot of it. The darkness seemed to be shifting and swirling, as if alive, and he could not help the shudder that ran down his spine.  
  
The defenders upon the wall watched in horror as the nighttime shadows transformed into thousands of orcs, moving quickly and quietly towards the city. They were too numerous to even begin to count, pouring from the mountain like ants from an anthill and joining the small force already upon the battlefield. They did not shout or blow horns as the previous group had, yet somehow their silence was even more ominous. They formed rank after rank upon the field before the city, the flickering light from the fires upon the wall reflected dully off their armor and drawn weapons.  
  
“So many!” Gimli whispered hoarsely, his voice seeming loud in the shocked silence that covered the wall.  
  
Aragorn did not answer, his heart sinking lower with each line of orcs that formed upon the field. He tore his gaze from the horrendous sight, looking about him at the defenders lining the walls. Their faces showed their shocked disbelief and fear, doubt heavy in their eyes. They began to shift restlessly, many crying out in hopeless despair.  
  
“How will we fight them?” a soldier standing nearby suddenly cried out. “We will be overcome for sure, for they are too many.”  
  
Aragorn looked at the frightened man’s face and then firmly shook his head. “We WILL fight them,” he said loudly, his firm voice carrying to many of the soldiers nearby. “And we will endure,” he continued. “Hold fast to your courage, men of Gondor! Remember the innocent women and children you protect. We must not allow the enemy to pass!”  
  
Aragorn’s words seemed to have a calming effect upon all that heard him, but fear and doubt still hung heavy in the air, almost tangible in its intensity.  
  
Aragorn looked out once more at the ranks of orcs, trying to guess at their number while also trying desperately to think of a way to protect the city against them. The defenders were well outnumbered, and Aragorn doubted that the advantage afforded by the city wall would have much affect on the final outcome.  
  
“Where did they all come from?” Legolas asked softly from behind him, his voice steady despite his still pale features.  
  
Aragorn shook his head. “I do not know,” he answered just as quietly. “I did not think so many of their foul kind had survived the war with Sauron. I fear we have made the terrible mistake of underestimating Malek,” he finished, his voice a mere whisper.  
  
The orcs seemed to have all arrived at last, but they merely stood before the city, an unnatural silence hanging heavy in the air as the soldiers tensed for what they knew would come next.  
  
Suddenly, Legolas grasped Aragorn's arm, pointing towards the ranks of orcs. “Look!” he said, his voice low and strained.  
  
Aragorn followed his friend’s outstretched arm, his eyes sweeping up and down the ranks of orcs in search of what had caught Legolas’s attention. It did not take him long to find it, and he felt his body stiffening once more. “Malek,” he whispered, the single word sounding like a curse.  
  
A black shadow, seemingly darker than the night itself, hovered a short distance before the orc army, an intense feeling of malice and hatred radiating from it in waves. Even the orcs seemed loath to approach too near the shadow, and gave it a wide berth.  
  
Aragorn shook his head. “I can not see through the darkness that surrounds him,” he admitted quietly.  
  
Legolas nodded. “He wears the night like a cloak, and even my eyes cannot penetrate to what lies beneath.”  
  
“What is he waiting for,” Gimli spoke up from beside them, his eyes also perusing the darkness that was Malek.  
  
Aragorn continued to watch the orc army closely, and several long minutes passed before he answered the dwarf.  
  
“He is toying with us,” he finally replied, his voice angry and bitter. “He can sense our fear and uncertainty, and he is playing with us!”  
  
Legolas and Gimli had to agree, and their anger ignited as several more minutes of intense silence followed, the orc army merely standing and staring at the city. Aragorn found himself shifting as restlessly as his men, anxious for something to happen and yet dreading it at the same time.  
  
Aragorn was unsure of how much time had passed since the orcs had first appeared, but each moment of inactivity seemed like hours. He wondered briefly if Malek intended on defeating the city by merely staring at it. It did not seem so impossible now, for with each passing second, the soldiers were losing courage.  
  
The defenders all jumped as a single horn blast broke the silence of the night. Everyone tensed, and weapons were raised in preparation for the attack.  
  
Aragorn, Legolas, and Gimli also raised their weapons, but a second later lowered them in surprise.  
  
“They are leaving,” Gimli said quietly, his voice filled with surprise and disbelief.  
  
It was true, the orc army was breaking up, melting back into the shadows from whence they came, filing away as silently and quickly as they had come.  
  
“It is nearing dawn,” Legolas replied simply.  
  
“They are not going to attack,” Gimli murmured, his voice half statement, half question. “What kind of game is Malek playing?”  
  
“A very dangerous game,” Aragorn replied softly, running his gaze over the retreating army. “And one in which he has struck us a hard blow.”  
  
Legolas could only nod in agreement. Malek’s last action had been a calculated blow, attacking the courage of the defenders instead of their strength. All along the wall, the result of this attack could be plainly seen. Men stood ashen faced, weapons hanging limply from numb hands, faces showing shocked disbelief that they had been allowed to live yet another day. Several of the soldiers had even fallen to their knees, and the sound of weeping filled the air.  
  
Legolas met Aragorn’s eye, seeing his own weariness mirrored in the man’s haggard face.  
  
The sky opened up once more, pouring down rain without warning to mingle freely with the blood and tears of the defenders of Calembel. 


	15. Plans and Preparations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Fellowship is reuniting, but may face a new threat that is hunting them all.

Dawn, gray and cold, was just beginning to lighten the skies above Calembel.  The high dark storm clouds choked off most of the light of the rising sun and the rain continued to fall in steady sheets.  Far to the west, however, the clouds thinned and eventually faded, promising that this day would ultimately be dryer and brighter than the previous.

 

Aragorn, Legolas, and Gimli had joined with Gandalf, Faramir, and the hobbits, and the small company now stood huddled together up on the wall, viewing the damage of the evening’s attack.  The small company had managed to escape the night, for the most part, unscathed.  Arwen had already left, intending to join the healers of the city in tending to the wounded defenders.  

 

“I do not like this,” Aragorn said softly, gazing in the direction in which the large orc army had just disappeared moments before.  “If I had but known that Malek had managed to gather so many orcs to himself, I never would have separated the army and continued on without the main force.” Aragorn shook his head, and it was obvious that he was placing the blame upon himself.

 

Gimli looked at him and sighed tiredly.  “You did not know,” he said in support.  “None of us knew.”

 

“Yet I should have been prepared nonetheless,” Aragorn responded.  “It was foolish of me to assume anything when dealing with this creature.”

 

“What is done, is done,” Gandalf broke in.  “Fretting upon the mistakes of the past will not help the future.  We must dwell now upon what must be done to prepare for the next attack.  I do not expect the rest of the army to reach us for another day yet, which means we must fight at least one more battle without their aide.”

 

“There is much to do,” Aragorn agreed, looking up and down the wall.  “If Malek had attacked last night, we surely would have fallen, for we were unprepared.  As it is, he only intended on scaring us.  We must take the reprieve he foolishly gave us and use it wisely.”

 

“If his only intentions were to scare us,” Frodo said quietly, repressing a shudder, “he most certainly succeeded.”  Beside him, Merry and Sam both nodded, their faces still trying to regain some color.

 

Aragorn smiled down at them gently.  “This is true, yet the day will bring new courage to all.  We shall stand ready when night falls upon us once more, and we shall endure, even if Malek sets all the orcs of Middle Earth to the task of defeating us.”

 

“I think we saw all the orcs of Middle Earth last night,” Sam pointed out gloomily.

 

“What do we do in the meantime?” Merry asked.  “How do we prepare to fight such a large group of orcs?”

 

“There is much we can do, my small friend,” Faramir answered.  “Traps can be set, defenses made, and strategies determined.  Malek shall find that he made a mistake in not defeating us when he had the chance, for the next time he attacks, he shall not find us so completely defenseless.”  Faramir paused, and there was a strange light in his eyes.  “My father always told me that when you are outnumbered, you must find a way to outsmart your enemies.”

 

“Your father was a wise man,” Aragorn responded, “And indeed, we must find a way to outsmart Malek at his own game.”

 

“I have a suggestion,” Legolas spoke up for the first time.  All eyes turned to him and he smiled grimly.  “I am speaking of a tactic that is used often in my home when driving away large bands of wargs or spiders.”

 

“What is this tactic?” Aragorn asked.

 

“Instead of waiting for the orcs to attack the wall and trying to push them back here, I suggest that we build defense lines before the city and meet the enemy on the field.  This way, we have more than one position to fall back to, and we may slow them enough to protect the city.”

 

Aragorn nodded.  “I was thinking of this strategy myself,” he admitted, “and I think it is a good idea.”

 

“Then I will get started on it right away,” Farmir stated, stretching sore muscles.  “We cannot afford to waste a single minute.”

 

Aragorn smiled at him, “ You may begin to see to this, but I also expect you to find a couple of hours to rest this day and regain your strength for tonight.”

 

Farmir nodded at this, knowing the importance of facing a battle, especially one in which you are outnumbered, rested and prepared.  He turned to leave, but Aragorn called out to him once more.

 

“I also need you to send a messenger to the main army bidding them to hasten with all speed to the city.  They must not waste any time in coming to our aide.”

 

Once more, Faramir nodded, then turned and quickly strode from the wall, calling men to him as he went.  

 

Aragorn watched him go, his thoughts distant until he heard a hesitant voice call out quietly to him.  He turned and found Kenson Brantz standing uncomfortably a few feet away.  The man's armor was stained with blood, and a small stream of red worked its way down his face from a cut above his left eye, contrasting sharply to his pale features.  He looked awkward and self-conscious, so Aragorn smiled lightly at him, trying to put the man at ease.   
  
"Kenson Brantz," he said quietly, nodding his head at the man.  "Your help was greatly appreciated both before the attack and during and if there is anything that I can do to repay you, just ask."   
  
"You are very gracious, my lord," Kenson replied, bowing low.  "However, it is not with hope of repayment that I come to you, but more with hope of survival."   
  
Aragorn arched a questioning eyebrow and Kenson continued.   
  
"I can see that our enemy greatly outnumbers us, and I would ask permission to ride from the city to the trading base of Thruburk.  It is several miles away, but I know that at this time of year, the base is filled with soldiers such as myself.  I believe I could ride back with over a hundred more swords to aid in our fight."   
  
"Over a hundred swords," Aragorn repeated softly, shaking his head slowly.   
  
"I know it is not much, my lord," Kenson said quietly, shrugging his shoulders, "but any help would be welcome at such a time as this."   
  
"Very welcome," Aragorn said emphatically.  "You have my permission, captain, and my best wishes for a speedy and safe journey."   
  
Kenson bowed.  "If I leave now and ride hard, I can reach the base shortly after noon.  With any luck, we can be back at Calembel before the battle tonight."   
  
"Then I wish you all the luck in the world," Aragorn replied softly.   
  
Kenson turned to leave, but hesitated.  He turned back to Aragorn, looking slightly embarrassed.  "My lord," he said quietly, then hesitated.  At last he continued.  "If I am to leave right away, I have no time to find my son, Dar, and tell him of my departure..." he trailed off once more.   
  
Aragorn smiled at him.  "Have no fear, captain.  I will make sure your son is notified that you have gone."   
  
Kenson returned Aragorn's smile gratefully and then turned and left.   
  
"So what do _we_ do?"  Frodo asked from beside Gandalf.   
  
Aragorn looked at the hobbits, running an expert eye over all three of them.  The strain of the battle could easily be seen etched on their faces, and they were clearly exhausted.  Aragorn was reminded that although these hobbits were extremely brave, they were not warriors at heart.  They were much more suited for eating and merry conversation than fighting, and his heart grieved for them.   
  
"Go and rest now," he said gently, his voice filled with compassion.  "There will be plenty of opportunity for you to help later, after you have refreshed your mind and spirit."   
  
Frodo nodded gratefully, but his sharp eyes found Aragorn, and he did not yet turn to leave.  "What will you all be doing?"  he asked curiously and with a hint of determination.   
  
Aragorn could feel the eyes of all his companions upon him, waiting for his response.  He lifted his head and met Gandalf's sharp gaze, his own eyes shining with determination.  "I think," he said quietly, his eyes still locked on Gandalf’s, "that it is time for the plan that we discussed earlier."   
  
Gandalf immediately frowned, while at the same time nodding slightly as if in agreement.  "I see no other option," the wizard stated finally, his voice filled with resignation.   
  
"Nor do I," Aragorn replied, his voice much firmer.   
  
"What plan?" Gimli questioned, watching the exchange between wizard and king with a critical eye.   
  
"If we are to make plans to destroy Malek, then we must learn more about him.  We must discover where it is that he hides and anything else that can aid us in our fight against him.  This is even more important now that I know how many orcs he has.  If we merely sit here and wait for him to attack, we will eventually be overrun.  However, if we manage to destroy Malek, the orc army will be easy enough to overcome.  They are nothing without a leader!"   
  
"So how do you intend on doing this?" Legolas spoke up again.

  
"First," Aragorn replied,  "We must discover where it is that Malek is hiding.   From there, we can use the information in formulating a plan.   Gandalf and I have discussed this and decided the only way to learn of Malek's hiding place is to track his army back to where they came from."   
  
Silence filled the air as Aragorn's companions merely stared at him, their faces incredulous.   
  
"So," Gimli finally broke the silence,  "you want us to track an army of well over five thousand orcs, in the rain, up a mountain, and escaping the notice of any rear guard they may have posted?"   
  
Aragorn nodded and smiled.  "Right on all points except one, my friend.  _Me_ , not _us_.  The rest of you will be needed here in the city to help prepare for tonight."   
  
Once again there was a brief silence, and once again, it was Gimli who broke it.  "You mean to tell me that you intend to track those beasts all by yourself!  Their trail will be nearly impossible to follow once they reach the mountain, and any trail they do leave will most likely be swept away by the rain."   
  
"Do not worry, Gimli," Aragorn said.  "I was taught how to track a rabbit in a snowstorm from the time I was barely old enough to walk, and my teachers were the best in the land.  Have no fear, I will be able to follow the orcs.”

  
"And anything that he misses will not escape the eye of an elf," Legolas broke in, giving Aragorn a sharp look.   
  
Aragorn shook his head and opened his mouth to argue, but Gandalf spoke before he was able to,  "I think it is a good idea for you to accompany him, Legolas.”  
  


"Then it is settled," Legolas stated, crossing his arms and glancing toward Aragorn.  "I am going.”  
  
Aragorn looked at the resolute look upon his friend's face and realized that there would be no dissuading the elf short of an outright order.  Even then, he was not sure Legolas would obey.  "Very well," he sighed, secretly glad of the company.   
  
"I, too, will go," Gimli stated, placing his hand determinedly upon his axe.   
  
"Nay, friend," Aragorn said firmly, before anyone could interrupt.  "As I said before, you will be needed here.  Legolas and I have hunted together before on many occasions, and we will be able to move much more swiftly on our own."   
  
Gimli looked as if he was going to argue, but Aragorn did not give him a chance.  Turning to Legolas, he addressed the elf.  "We must leave as soon as possible if we wish to be back before nightfall."   
  
"I must fill my quiver, and then I will be ready," Legolas stated quietly, throwing the distressed Gimli a sympathetic look.   
  
"Very well, we leave within the hour."   
  
********   
  
"Merry!"  Pippin called out excitedly as his friend rounded the corner of the hall.  He jumped up from his stool and raced forward as first Frodo, and then Sam joined Merry.  He reached the trio and began dancing excited circles about them, hurling questions about the battle, hardly noticing their exhausted state or blood stained armor.   
  
Frodo and Sam exchanged tired, but amused expressions at the younger hobbit’s enthusiasm.  However, they did not hesitate to quickly retire to their rooms and leave Merry to deal with the excited Pippin.   
  
"Easy, Pip," Merry said, somewhat exasperated and pushing forward toward their room, wishing for nothing more than to strip from his filthy armor and fall into an immediate sleep.   
  
"What happened?  Where are the others?  Did Malek show up?"  Pippin continued firing questions at his friend as they entered the small room.   
  
Merry sighed, rubbing his tired eyes.  Suddenly he froze, staring at one of the beds in the corner of the room.   
  
Pippin followed his gaze, and then laughed softly.  "Don't worry, Merry.  It's just the little boy, Dar.  He was helping me guard the hall, but I sent him in here when he got too tired to keep his eyes open."   
  
Merry nodded, then began wearily stripping off his armor.  Pippin lent him a hand, never stopping his barrage of questions.  Merry answered in monosyllables and grunts, and Pippin was quickly becoming exasperated.   
  
"Please, Merry," he whined, "it was bad enough being stuck here all night, you can at least tell me what happened."   
  
"I'll tell you when I get up," Merry offered sleepily as he slipped beneath the covers of his bed.   
  
Pippin frowned, disappointment filling his face.  "At least tell me if the others are alright," he begged.   
  
"They’re fine," Merry answered drowsily, already slipping toward sleep.   
  
Pippin looked at his friend disgustedly, shaking his head.  "Where are they?" he asked, hoping to go and find someone more willing to answer his questions.  He was already fairly sure that Frodo and Sam, next door, would already be asleep.   
  
"Faramir is preparing defense lines, Arwen is helping with the wounded, and Gimli and Gandalf are working on reinforcing the wall and gate," Merry murmured, hoping to stop Pippin's insistent questions so that he could sleep.   
  
"What about Aragorn and Legolas?"  Pippin asked, curious that his friend had not mentioned them.   
  
"They have probably already gone," Merry sighed, his words almost lost as he buried his head beneath his pillow.   
  
Pippin moved over to the bed and lifted the pillow off Merry's head.  "Gone?  Gone were?" he questioned.   
  
Merry glared up at him from a single bloodshot eye, before answering.  "They left to find where Malek is hiding.  Now will you leave me alone so I can sleep?"   
  
Pippin dropped the pillow back over Merry's head, then stood and stared down at the bed.  In a matter of minutes, the sound of Merry's heavy breathing filled the air and Pippin knew he was asleep.   
  
A series of expression's crossed his face, one right after the other, and if Merry had been awake to see them, he would have immediately been alerted that all was not well with the younger hobbit.  As it were, Merry did not see the expressions flitting across Pippin's face, nor was he aware when the hobbit left the room, shutting the door quietly behind him.   
  
*******   
  
"Take care, my friend," Gimli said quietly, gripping Legolas's shoulder as the elf knelt and filled his quiver.  Legolas glanced at him and smiled slightly.   
  
"Of course," he answered with a forced cheerfulness.   
  
"I must admit that I do not like this," Gimli said, frowning deeply.  "There are too many things that could go wrong."   
  
"I do not like it either," Legolas answered with a sigh, rising gracefully and swinging the full quiver onto his back.  "However, I agree with Aragorn and Gandalf that it is the only option.  We must learn all that we can about Malek if we are to defeat him."   
  
"All the same," Gimli answered reluctantly, "I wish I was going with you.  You need me to watch your back."   
  
"I will be fine," Legolas grinned down at him encouragingly.  "I was watching my own back before you were even born, my friend."   
  
"Just be careful," Gimli grunted, not meeting his friend’s eyes.   
  
Legolas looked down at the dwarf and was about to reply, but Aragorn called out to him, the man already heading toward the northern gate. Legolas reached down and gripped Gimli's shoulder in a silent farewell before turning and joining Aragorn at the edge of the city.   
  
Gimli watched them as they talked briefly with the guard and then turned and began walking swiftly toward the distant mountain. As he watched them go, he got the strangest feeling that he would never see either one of them again.  Emotion welled deep within him, and he found it impossible to swallow the lump that formed in his throat.  He fought off the feeling, telling himself that he was merely tired and thus overreacting to every thing that had happened the previous evening.  Aragorn and Legolas would be fine.  They knew how to take care of themselves and had been doing so for years before Gimli had met them.   
  
Still, Gimli stood staring after his two friends long after they had disappeared into the shadow of the mountain.  At last he gave himself a hard shake and turned away from the gate to go see to his day’s duty.   
  
If Gimli had remained where he was for just a minute longer, he would have seen the small shape that broke away from the wall and quickly began following the path the elf and ex-ranger had just taken.

 

******

 

Far above the small city, a lone orc stood on a rock ledge, his eyes taking in the activity around the city.  He huddled against the rock face, trying to hide as much as possible in the darkness offered by its shadow.  He was restless, shifting back and forth and often eyeing the sky that was still blanketed by high clouds.  The rain was lessening once more, and the clouds looked as if they were beginning to break up and drift away.

 

The orc growled low and returned his eyes to the city, stiffening as he spotted the two figures crossing the short plain and heading toward the mountains.  He remained where he was, frozen against the rock face, watching and waiting.  After several long minutes had passed, he at last spotted what he had been waiting for.  

 

Concealing a wicked grin, the orc turned and scampered from his high perch, his job finished.  The only thing left to do was report to his master all that he had seen.


	16. Hidden Traps

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Fellowship is reuniting, but may face a new threat that is hunting them all.

Legolas stood completely motionless, his head cocked slightly to one side.  The only thing that moved on the elf was his eyes, which were busy scanning the rocky slopes of the Ered Nimrais.  The mountain rose before him like a giant finger thrusting from the earth, casting a shadow across the small wooded glade the tall archer now stood within.  The morning rain had lessened to a light drizzle, and Legolas had cast back the hood of his cloak, allowing the clean, fresh drops to fall freely onto his face and hair.  He continued to study the slopes of the mountain up which Aragorn and he would soon be traveling.  Already, the ground was beginning to slope upward, and the elf guessed that their travel would become more and more difficult as they continued on.

Suddenly, he turned, his eyes perusing the deep shadows of the trees behind him.  He frowned slightly, his eyes narrowing and his hand caressing the hilt of one of his long knives.

A few paces away, Aragorn knelt upon the soft ground, examining what little the rain had left of the orc army’s tracks.   This glade had been the first opportunity to find clear prints, and Aragorn was careful to read the tracks for any information they could give him.  He searched for clues as to whether or not the orc army had split after their withdrawal, or remained in one giant force.   He had been afraid that if the army split into two or perhaps more groups, each going to a separate cave, he and Legolas would have no way of knowing which one Malek occupied.   However, from what he had seen so far, Aragorn guessed that they had all remained together, and this was welcome news to the ex-ranger.

He studied the ground for several more long minutes before finally rising and turning to Legolas, motioning to the elf that he was ready to move on.  He was surprised when Legolas didn’t even seem to notice him, instead staring intently back the way they had come, his body tense and alert.  Aragorn felt the first stirrings of anxiety and he quietly moved to stand next to his friend.  “What’s wrong,” he asked softly, his voice a mere whisper that blended in with the softly falling rain.

Legolas still did not turn towards him or acknowledge his presence, but Aragorn knew the elf had heard him.  A few seconds of tense silence followed until Legolas at last let out a small sigh.  “We’re being followed,” the elf stated, his words as soft and quiet as Aragorn’s had been a moment before.

Aragorn’s only response to the statement was a slight tensing of his shoulders and a sigh that matched Legolas’s.  He also began scanning the path behind them, although he knew he would be unable to see anything.  “How many?” he asked simply, his tone showing that he was not surprised at this new development.

Legolas shrugged and at last turned to meet Aragorn’s gaze.  “I cannot be completely certain,” he replied slowly, “but I believe there is only one.  The trees whisper of its presence, and yet they tell me very little.  They do not seem overly disturbed, and yet that could be simply because a lone orc means little to them after the army that just passed through.”  Legolas shrugged once more as if in apology that he could not tell Aragorn more. 

Aragorn nodded slowly, accepting the elf’s words without question.  “How long before the creature reaches us?” he asked quietly, his eyes scanning the surrounding trees once more, as if expecting the orc to step from them at any moment.

“He has kept a pretty steady distance between us, but now that we have stopped he will undoubtedly gain on us.  Perhaps…” Legolas trailed off, and instead of finishing his sentence, he strode to a tall tree standing nearby.  He leapt upward and effortlessly caught hold of one of the lower branches, pulling himself up gracefully and quickly climbing higher into the tree.

Aragorn watched as his friend became lost within the thick leaves.  Several minutes of silence followed, and Aragorn had to fight down the urge to call up and ask what Legolas had discovered.  He was still unsure of how far away their orc shadow was, and he didn’t want to alert the creature that they were on to him.  He had expected something like this, yet he had hoped to at least reach the mountain before….

Aragorn gave a start as Legolas dropped silently before him, materializing seemingly out of thin air.   The elf looked troubled, and Aragorn looked at him expectantly.  “What did you learn?” he asked.

Legolas shook his head.  “The creature has already entered the woods, and the trees hid him from my view.   I expect he will reach this glade in a matter of minutes.”

Aragorn sighed, glancing up at the midmorning sun peering through the fading clouds.  He had hoped to be a lot further along by now; at least on the first slopes of the mountain.  Who knew how far away Malek’s hiding place was, and Aragorn did not relish the thought of getting caught within the mountains at night with thousands of orcs on the prowl.

Legolas was watching Aragorn closely, waiting for his friend’s command.  The elf felt strangely disconcerted about their shadow, though he could not explain exactly why.  He wondered why it had taken him so long to realize that they were being followed.  He also wondered why he still could not sense the orc, although the creature had to be close.

Aragorn glanced once more at the mountain, and then swept his gaze behind him.  “Well,” he said lightly, his voice still toned low, “we can continue on and hope to loose the creature once we reach the mountain, or we can wait for him here and end his hunt of us once and for all.  What do you think, my friend?”

Legolas seemed to consider for a moment before shaking his head.  “I would prefer facing the creature now and not having to worry about him in the future,” he replied evenly, his eyes shining dangerously.  

“I agree,” Aragorn replied, unsheathing the knife at his waist.  “You go across the glade and cover me with your bow, and I will face this creature.  Hopefully we can be finished with this and continue on before too much time is wasted.”

Legolas nodded, then swiftly moved away further up the path, pulling his bow from his back.  Aragorn glanced around, finding a patch of scrub brush that would offer excellent cover without impeding his movement.  He quietly moved to the brush, hunching down within its cover and holding his knife ready, his entire body alert and waiting, listening intently for the first sounds of the enemy’s approach.  He glanced quickly in the direction Legolas had gone, hoping to find where the elf had hidden himself.  Legolas, however, had completely disappeared, and Aragorn knew he would not be able to find him.  He turned back to the task at hand, slowing his breathing and holding completely still, blending in totally with the brush around him.

Silence fell across the small glade, the only movement coming from two small squirrels playing tag around a giant oak tree, their chattering and arguing the only sound breaking the quiet.  The first squirrel was racing swiftly around and around the trunk of the tree, its companion hot on its trail.  Suddenly, the leading squirrel stopped cold, staring toward the far end of the glade, its nose twitching slightly.  The second squirrel, unaware that the first had stopped, nearly ran into his companion, letting loose a wild barrage of chattering that soon stopped as he too grew still and wary.

A figure had entered the glen, completely swathed in a black cloak and moving slowly and cautiously forward, bent slightly as it studied the ground before it.  Still concealed behind the scrub brush, Aragorn could sense it drawing near to his hiding place.  He tightened his grip on his knife, every muscle prepared for his spring forward.  He closed his eyes, letting his other senses take over and tell him what he needed to know.  _‘Just a little bit closer,’_ he told himself steadily.  ‘ _Almost there….almost…’_

Like a striking snake, silent and deadly, Aragorn leapt forward, his hand reaching out to grab the creature by the neck before lifting his knife and beginning the downward blow that would end the beast’s life quickly and quietly, with no struggle.  

It was only Aragorn’s excellent reflexes that saved him from making the biggest mistake of his life.  The knife came to a stop a mere inch away from its intended victim’s throat as Aragorn let out a loud curse.

Pippin closed his eyes tightly, too terrified to cry out or struggle, sure that his life was about to come to a rather nasty and bloody end. 

Silence once more fell, as all of nature seemed to tense, watching the strange scene taking place at the center of the glade.

It took Pippin a few seconds to realize that the knife was not going to complete its journey, and he carefully cracked an eye open and peered above him.

Aragorn was too surprised to do anything but stare down at him in horror, his knife still clenched in his fist.

Pippin heard the quiet sound of running feet that stopped a few feet away, followed by a soft exclamation of surprise.

Aragorn seemed at last to be released from his shocked state, and with another loud oath he released Pippin, the hobbit falling unceremoniously to the ground.

Pippin glanced up at him and winced, realizing that Aragorn’s surprise was quickly being replaced with anger.  The man’s face could have scared away storm clouds.  

“By the Valar, what are you _doing_ here?!” Aragorn erupted, reaching down and hauling Pippin to his feet once more.  “Don’t you know that I could have killed you just now,” he shouted, shaking Pippin for emphasis.  

Pippin was very aware of that fact, and was still in the process of trying to still his madly beating heart to a more normal rate.  Aragorn continuing to shake him like a rag doll was not helping matters much either.  Pippin looked past Aragorn to Legolas, hoping for some assistance, but the elf stood with arms crossed, his face completely blank.  

“I asked you a question!” Aragorn repeated, no longer shouting, but his voice low and dangerous, drawing Pippin’s attention back to him.  

“I…I…I….”  Pippin stuttered, trying desperately to think of a reason to give the furious man.  The truth was, he was uncertain even himself why he was here.  All he knew was that after talking to Merry, something inside of him had snapped.  He had decided the time was finished for him to be sitting around doing nothing, and he had acted without really thinking.  Yet how could he explain that to Aragorn?  He doubted in the man’s present condition he would understand something that Pippin didn’t entirely understand himself.  He had just had to come; it was as simple as that.  _‘Or as complicated,’_ he thought as he looked into Aragorn’s angry eyes, his friend still waiting for his answer.  “I just wanted to help.”  Pippin finished lamely, lowering his eyes to the ground.

“Help?” Aragorn repeated, his voice still low and rock hard.  Suddenly he released Pippin once more, causing the hobbit to stumble back slightly before catching his balance.  “You just wanted to help?”  Aragorn repeated, his voice incredulous.  “How on earth could you think that following us, making us think you were an orc, would help?”

“I don’t know,” Pippin answered, feeling a strange well of emotion beginning to build within him.  “I guess I just got tired of sitting around guarding a bunch of baggage!”  He raised his head, at last meeting Aragorn’s gaze as his own anger began to blaze within his eyes.  “If you no longer wish me to be a knight of Gondor, you should just tell me instead of pushing me into the background!”  He blurted out, at last releasing the pent up emotion he had been carrying around with him.  “I know I may not be as strong and brave as the others, but I am smart enough to know when I am being used!  I have been insulted and humiliated, and I have had enough!”  Part of Pippin realized that he was shouting; shouting at Aragorn, and yet he could not seem to stop.  “I can do anything the others can,” he declared boldly, “and I will prove it if I must.  If you try to send me back, I will just follow you and….”  

Pippin finally managed to close his mouth, his eyes as wide as Sam’s favorite saucepan.  He dropped his eyes to the ground, suddenly ashamed of his outburst and feeling unpleasantly guilty.  He waited for Aragorn’s reaction, dreading it with every particle of his being.  After several long minutes had passed, and Aragorn still had not spoken, Pippin at last raised his head.  He found Aragorn looking at him with a strange, unreadable expression on his face.

At last, the man spoke.  “Gandalf once told me that you can know everything there is to know about hobbits, and a hundred years later, they will still surprise you.  I think I have finally figured out what he meant.”  Aragorn’s voice was low, almost as if he was speaking to himself, and there was a hint of…was it respect…. in his voice.

Pippin was unsure what Aragorn meant by this comment, but he was too busy trying to figure out why Aragorn no longer seemed angry to give it much thought.

“Know this, Pippin,” Aragorn said softly, his voice surprisingly gentle.  “You could never stop being a Knight of Gondor, nor would I ever wish you to.  Nor do you have to prove yourself to me, for you have already done so many times.”

Pippin’s eyes were locked in Aragorn’s powerful ones, and he suddenly felt all the anger and resentment drain out of him.  He knew Aragorn’s words were spoken simply and honestly, and he felt himself relax and a flare of hope ran through him. 

Aragorn at last broke his gaze, looking upward at the sun’s position in the sky and shaking his head slightly.  Turning back to Pippin, his face turned hard once more, causing the hobbit to feel all his previous hope drain from him.  “I am afraid, young hobbit, that you are in serious trouble,” Aragorn said simply, looking down at Pippin.

Pippin lowered his eyes to the ground, certain that he was about to be sent back to the city.

“Even were I to allow you to come with us,” Aragorn continued, quietly, ignoring Pippin’s hopeful look,  “when we return to the city, I expect Gandalf will skin you alive, if he doesn’t think of something worse.”

Pippin winced, picturing the wizard’s wrath.  “I’ll face that when it happens,” he responded bravely.  “Please let me come with you!”

Aragorn shook his head slightly.  “The others will be worried about you, Pippin.  They will search for you.”

“I left a message with a guard,” Pippin responded quickly, thinking that he had to find a way to convince his friend to let him come.  “He will tell them that I came with you.”

Aragorn continued to shake his head.  “There are many orcs where we’re headed, and the chances are we might have to fight some of them before this day is through,” he warned Pippin seriously.

“I am not afraid,” Pippin responded; hope continuing to rise in him.  “I know I can help if you will but give me a chance,” he begged.

Aragorn did not say anything, but merely studied Pippin for what seemed like ages, causing the hobbit to squirm and fidget beneath the intense scrutiny.  At last, Aragorn turned away from him and faced Legolas.  “What say you, Legolas?  Should we bring him along?” he asked quietly.

Legolas eyed Pippin sharply before turning once more to Aragorn.  “I would probably advice against it if it were not for the fact that we do not know whether there are any other orcs behind us.  Sending him back could be more dangerous than keeping him with us.  It is your choice, Aragorn, do what you think is best.”

Aragorn nodded, turning back to Pippin and reading the pleading look in the hobbit’s eyes.

A few seconds later, he made up his mind.  “If you can keep up with us, than you may come along,” he said at last, shaking off his misgivings.

Pippin resisted the urge to jump up and down in excitement.  “Thank you,” he gasped out, “I can keep up, I promise.” 

Aragorn nodded once, his face grim.  He turned, Legolas following, and began a swift march toward the mountain.

Pippin watched them silently for a moment, then hiked his pack further on his back and raced after them, thinking that he would finally get a chance to prove himself worthy of the title, Knight of Gondor.

******

Gandalf was not happy, and this fact was quite obvious to anyone who happened to look at him.  The wizard’s bushy eyebrows were knitted together by his fierce scowl, and the very air around him seemed to crackle and snap with his anger.  

He strode down the main street of Calambel, completely unaware of the people that raced to get out of his path.  The three hobbits followed swiftly behind, practically having to jog to keep up with the wizard’s long strides.

_“I am going to KILL him,”_ Gandalf muttered to himself, unconsciously clenching his fists at his side.  _“When I get through with that young hobbit, he is going to wish he had never been born!”_

“Gandalf,” a timid voice called out behind him.  “Do you mind slowing down just a bit?”

Gandalf once more became aware of his three small shadows, and he slowed his pace a bit, allowing them to catch up to him.  As they drew aside him, Merry glanced up at the wizard’s face, and then quickly looked away.  Gandalf sighed and tried to school his features to calm.  He knew that Merry, Sam, and Frodo were worried enough about their friend without having to fret about the wrath of an old wizard.

Noon had come and gone within the city of Calembel, and Gandalf had just learned about the foolish actions of the youngest member of their company.  The remaining three hobbits had been horrified when he had told them what he had learned from one of the guards, and Gandalf knew that Merry blamed himself for Pippin’s brash actions.

“Do you think he will be alright?”  Merry asked quietly from beside Gandalf, still not meeting the wizard’s eyes.

Gandalf shoved down his own anger and worries and strove to make his voice calm and soothing.  “I am sure he will be fine,” he stated.  “He has undoubtedly caught up with Aragorn and Legolas by now, and if they do not send him directly back, they will watch over him.”

“Maybe we should send someone out to look for him?”  Sam suggested.  “Just in case he got lost and is wandering around alone out there somewhere.”

Merry looked completely horrified at this possibility, but Gandalf quickly assured him.  “Nonsense,” the wizard said dismissively.  “Pippin has proved to me before that he is perfectly able to follow tracks, and since Legolas and Aragorn made no effort to hide their passing, I am sure that Pippin will be able to find them.”

“I don’t understand why he did this?” Merry said, looking as if he was close to tears.

“Nor do I,” Gandalf stated, “but I intend to find out!”

Frodo exchanged a glance with Sam, actually feeling somewhat sorry for Pippin whenever he returned.  He knew the wizard was not intending to be gentle with the young hobbit.

“Come,” Gandalf commanded, “enough time has been wasted this day!  We have much to do in preparation.”

Once more Gandalf picked up his pace, quickly pulling ahead of the three hobbits once more.  Merry, Frodo, and Sam exchanged looks, the same thought running through all their heads.  _‘What had Pippin gotten himself into?’_

*****

_‘What did I get myself into,”_ Pippin wondered as he crouched behind a large boulder with Aragorn and Legolas.   A big clump of thorny bush shared their hiding place, making things rather scratchy and uncomfortable.  Worse, Pippin seemed to be allergic to the plant.  He had gotten a rather nasty cut on his forearm from one of the thorns, and now his entire arm seemed to be swelling to three times it’s normal size.  And to top everything off, the storm clouds had faded away, leaving the afternoon sun to beat down relentlessly upon their heads.

Pippin shifted slightly, trying to get comfortable, then groaned when he felt a sharp prick on his bottom.  He seemed to be sitting on a branch of the thorny brush and there was no escape from its cruel thorns.  

Surprisingly, Pippin did not complain about his discomfort.  Nor had he complained when Legolas and Aragorn had insisted on marching all morning and into the afternoon, taking little or no breaks to rest or even eat.  This really didn’t matter, for Pippin had forgotten to bring any food with him anyway, a true sign of how upset he had been.  Luckily for him, Legolas had seen his discomfort and had dropped back long enough to give him some lembas to chew on.  This had filled him, if not satisfied him. 

Now, Pippin wished for more of the strength-giving elven bread.  He was worn out from the several hours of traversing the steep mountain slopes of the Ered Nimrais, forced to keep up with two seemingly tireless companions.  The fact that they seemed to have at last reached their destination did little to cheer the hobbit.  He was not looking forward to the trek home.

“I must admit that Malek chose the perfect spot to hide his army,” Aragorn said softly from beside him, the sound of his voice breaking the tense silence that had surrounded the company of three.

Legolas merely nodded, and Pippin shifted once more to try and peer over the rock in the direction the elf and man were staring.  He sighed resignedly as he felt several more thorns dig into his flesh.  He glanced at Aragorn, wondering if his friend was suffering the same as him.  If Aragorn was, he gave no sign.  As for Legolas, it almost seemed as if the thorns were twisting out of their way to avoid pricking into his soft flesh.  ‘ _Merry is going to be picking these thorns out of me for hours,_ ’ Pippin thought glumly.  ‘ _That is, if I survive the trip home, and Gandalf doesn’t meet me and hang me up by my toes from the front gate!’_

Pippin at last maneuvered himself into a position to peer over the rock.  Although he knew very little about military strategy, he found that he understood exactly what Aragorn was talking about.

The large boulder the three friends hid behind was located at the base of a steep and rocky rise that lifted high above the companion’s heads before joining with a rock wall.  Directly above them, the mouth of a giant cave opened up, it’s yawning blackness a mockery to the afternoon sun.  On either side of the cave, the rock wall fell abruptly away into a sheer drop.  The only way to get near the cave would be up the rise before them, and this path was open and barren, free of any boulders or trees that could offer cover.  Nothing could approach the mouth of the cave without being plainly visible to anyone left on guard.

“So what do we do now?” Pippin whispered, despite the fact that the distance to the cave mouth was too far for any orc to overhear him.  “We have found Malek’s cave.  Isn’t that what we set out to do?”

“Yes,” Aragorn answered, “and yet I had hoped to learn much more than I have.”

“Like what?”  Pippin asked,

Aragorn glanced over the hobbit at Legolas, shrugging his shoulders.  “I’m not sure,” he responded.  “I just feel that we still know too little.  We don’t know how far back that cavern goes, whether it splits once inside, or if Malek is just using it as an underground passageway to someplace completely different.”

“I am fairly certain that Malek remains here,” Legolas spoke up.  “I can feel his evil radiating from this place and I also can sense orcs nearby, most likely those that are guarding the entrance.”

“I still wish there was a way to learn more about the layout inside,” Aragorn said, a hint of frustration in his voice.  

“Perhaps there is,” Legolas said thoughtfully.

Aragorn turned to him questioningly, and the elf merely shrugged.  “We obviously cannot get into the cave from this entrance, but perhaps we can find another.  You said before that many of these caves are interlocked, connected by several different tunnels.  There has to be another entrance somewhere, we just have to find it.”

“Finding it can take more time than we have,” Aragorn responded with a sigh.  

Legolas glanced up at the afternoon sky.  “We still have several hours of daylight left.  Why don’t we at least try?”

Aragorn seemed thoughtful for a time, and then at last nodded.  “If we skirt this rock wall and come at it from the other side, there is a chance we might come across a back entrance.”

“Then let us get started,” Legolas suggested, rising to a crouch and beginning to back away from the rock.

Pippin was more than willing to join him, giving the thorny bush one last glare.

When the company had moved far enough down the rise to be hidden from view from the rock wall, Aragorn turned and began leading them in a southeasterly direction, intending to skirt the wall to the south and come at it from the other side.  The three companions traveled in silence, keeping their ears open for any sound of roaming orcs set as guards. 

 Despite the rocky terrain, it took them less than an hour to completely skirt the rock wall, now facing it from the back, which was even steeper than the front.  Legolas was the first to spot the small cave located halfway up the steep front and partially hidden by a clump of brush.   The climb up to the cave looked quite steep and slippery, the ground covered with loose rock, and Aragorn and Legolas studied it for several minutes, looking for the best way to reach it.  

Pippin studied it as well, but with much more distrust and distaste in his eyes.  He knew it would be just his luck if the bush surrounding the cave was the same kind of thorny brush that they had just left.  He was already beginning to itch horribly everywhere the thorns had pierced his flesh, and he felt as if his entire body was beginning to swell.

“I would estimate that this cave sits behind and to the left of the one we just left,” Aragorn stated quietly.  “Thus, there is a good chance that it might connect with the other.”

“I still sense the presence of orcs,” Legolas stated quietly, “but it is distant and muted.  I do not think a guard has been set on this entrance.”

“Which could be bad or good,” Aragorn responded.  “It could mean that they have just not bothered exploring and finding other entrances, or it could mean that this cave does not connect with the other, after all.”

“There is no way to find out standing here,” Legolas said, looking up at the cave entrance with a reluctant distaste.  

“How are we supposed to get up there?”  Pippin asked, frowning at the steep face.

Aragorn and Legolas exchanged looks over Pippin’s head.  “Pippin,” Aragorn said quietly, kneeling in front of the hobbit.  “I want you to remain here.  Getting up there will be difficult enough for Legolas and I, and pure torture for you.”

“I can handle it,” Pippin said immediately, not liking the idea of being left behind.

“We need someone to watch our back, Pippin,” Legolas added quietly.  “If orcs discover we have entered this cave, they can trap us rather easily.”

“And how am I to stop that?!” Pippin exclaimed.  “I seriously doubt I can keep a horde of orcs from doing whatever they want.”

“No,” Aragorn said, “And I do not expect you to try.  Instead, if something like that happens, or if Legolas and I do not return before dusk, you must return to Calembel and tell Gandalf all that has happened.”

Pippin opened his mouth, not at all liking the sound of this conversation, but Aragorn did not give him a chance to speak.

“As a knight of Gondor, I expect you to obey your king,” Aragorn stated firmly.  “Now, I suggest that you move downhill a bit and use some of those trees for cover.”

Pippin found himself staring at Aragorn’s back as the man turned and began the ascent to the cave mouth.  Legolas gave Pippin an understanding look and a gentle squeeze to the shoulder before turning and joining Aragorn.

Pippin sighed loudly, also turning and making his way toward the suggested cover of the trees.  This trip was not turning out to be anything like he had hoped!

*****

Malek’s eyes practically glowed with his pleasure.  He dismissed the orc that had just made his report with an arrogant wave of his hand.  Everything was going perfectly, and Malek shivered in anticipation of what would come next.  Soon, very soon, he would experience the sweet taste of his revenge.  Malek laughed, and the sound was hideous enough to cause many of the orcs near him to cower in fear.

Striding over to the largest of his captains, Malek quickly gave the creature his instructions.  The orc’s eyes glittered with hate and malicious anticipation as he listened to Malek’s orders.  When his master was finished, the orc bowed low, then turned to carry out his duties.

*****

Legolas stumbled from the opening of the cave, gasping in relief as he felt the cool, fresh air sweep around him.  He raised his head and let the late afternoon light sweep over his features, calming and caressing him.  Beside him, Aragorn also let out a sigh of relief as he exited the cave, breathing deeply of the fresh air.

“That was a complete waste of time,” Aragorn said dispassionately, gazing into the orange ball that was the sun.  “It is almost dusk, and we have discovered nothing!”

Legolas shook his head, his eyes still closed as he basked in the freedom of the open air around him, relieved to be free from the close and claustrophobic confines of the cave.  “We will merely have to return again tomorrow and continue our search,” he replied, feeling his stomach sink at the thought of having to enter another cave so soon.

Aragorn nodded.  “We are quickly running out of time,” he murmured, more to himself than to Legolas.

“Let us be gone from this evil place,” Legolas suggested.  “The sun sinks fast in this land.”

Aragorn nodded and the two began to pick their way carefully down the steep rock face.  About halfway down, Legolas suddenly froze, his body stiffening and his eyes scanning the terrain below them.  Almost at the same instant, Aragorn became aware of an unnatural stillness in the air, and he too became alert.  Something was wrong.

“Orcs,” Legolas said softly, “many of them.  They have been here recently, but I sense that they have gone.”  He glanced over his shoulder at Aragorn, his brow wrinkled with worry.

“Hurry,” Aragorn said urgently.  “We must find Pippin and get out of here!”

Legolas turned back around and began picking up speed, ignoring the rocks that shifted and slid beneath his feet.  A horrible fear settled in his stomach, and he could not shake it.  His eyes scanned the trees that Pippin should have been hiding beneath, desperately looking for the familiar shape of the hobbit.  He had expected Pippin to come forth to meet them as soon as he had seen them exit the cave, but as of yet, there was no sign of the hobbit.  He resisted the urge to call out, still sensing the presence of many orcs not that far off.  The creatures were out during daylight, and that did not bid well for their chances of getting back to the city unmolested.

Legolas slipped to a halt at the bottom of the rise, turning and offering himself as a balance as Aragorn slid down a second later.  His friend’s eyes shared the same worry that Legolas felt, and Aragorn was busy scanning the trees ahead of them in search of Pippin.  “Where is he?” Aragorn hissed, his voice both frustrated and worried.

“Perhaps he fell asleep,” Legolas suggested, hoping that this simple explanation was all that kept Pippin from meeting them.

Aragorn did not answer, but quickly strode forward into the small clump of trees, searching the ground for any sign of the hobbit.  What he saw caused his stomach to turn in fear.  Beneath the trees, the ground was littered with tracks, some recognizable as the hobbit’s, but most belonging to orcs.  “Pippin,” he called out as quietly as he could.  There was no response.  “Pippin,” he called a little bit louder.  Still no response.  

Aragorn turned as Legolas joined him, a grim expression on the elf’s face.  “The tracks go in two direction,” the elf informed Aragorn.   “I saw no sign of Pippin.”

Aragorn swore loudly, turning a slow circle to peruse the small stand of trees once more.  “Perhaps he heard the orcs approach and fled,” he said quietly.  “This does not mean he was captured.”

Legolas merely looked at him, not agreeing or disagreeing.  “What do we do now,” the elf asked, his voice filled with sorrow.

Aragorn sighed and rubbed a hand across his eyes.  “We have to find him,” he stated firmly.  “He could not have gone far, whether on his own or forced.”

Legolas nodded.  “If we each follow a trail, we may come upon some sign of him.”

Aragorn glanced toward the sun rapidly sinking toward the horizon.  “I am not sure we should separate,” he said slowly.

“We do not have much time,” Legolas replied urgently.  “I say we at least go two hundred yards both ways.  If we don’t find anything than we can decide what to do next, but we must at least try!”

Aragorn made up his mind swiftly, fighting down his growing sense of unease.  “You take the left trail and I shall take the right.  If you discover anything or run into trouble, just whistle.”

Legolas nodded briefly before springing away.

Aragorn turned more slowly, trying to shake the intense feeling that had settled upon him.  Something was wrong, very wrong!

_‘I never should have left him alone,’_ Aragorn thought bitterly, turning to begin his own hopeless search.

******

Malek sat upon a high rock, watching the activity below him.  The sun had yet to set, and Malek shied away from it’s light, too intent upon his mission to completely retreat into the safe shadows of his cave.  He felt the light weakening him, yet he had no fear that he was not strong enough to overcome any enemy that faced him, and night was fast approaching.

_‘And what a glorious night it is going to be,’_ Malek thought evilly, his grin revealing row upon row of sharp, jagged teeth.

“You will suffer tonight,” He grated out, watching the two figures far below him.  “Oh, how you will suffer!” 

He continued to watch for several minutes as the two figures split up, each taking a different path in search of their pitiful little friend.  Malek laughed.  “It is your friendship that will destroy you,” he hissed joyfully.  “And how fun that destruction will be for me!”

Malek glanced once more at the fiery ball of the sun, willing it to sink faster.  Looking back down he considered which one of his enemies he should hunt first.  The very idea of this was too much for him, and he found he could wait no longer.  Slipping from his rock perch he began moving quickly and quietly downward to begin his hunt.


	17. Fallen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Fellowship is reuniting, but may face a new threat that is hunting them all.

The city of Calembel lay bathed in a sea of golden light cast from the setting sun.   The earlier rain had left many small pools of water that caught and reflected the light like a thousand sparkling diamonds.  To the west of the city, a multitude of colors danced upon the surface of the Ciril, twisting and undulating with the slow flow of the river.

 

At another time, this scene would have been one of perfect peacefulness and tranquility, as the citizens of the city used the evening hours to relax at home, enjoy a fine dinner, or sit quietly before the early evening fire.  Now, however, all pretense of peacefulness had left the city.  Houses remained dark and shuttered, and the only people visible on the streets were soldiers scurrying about on various tasks.  The entire city had taken on an air of silent and ominous anticipation.

 

Gandalf stood atop the North wall, his restless gaze never resting on one area for more than a few seconds.  His long white robe fluttered and twisted in the soft evening breeze, unnoticed by the wizard, who wore a small, preoccupied frown.  Much had been done to fortify the city, and although Gandalf knew there was still a lot to do, he held higher hopes for the ability of the defenders to hold out against Malek’s larger force.

 

Gandalf’s gaze flickered down to the field before the city wall, where Faramir was busy with a large group of soldiers preparing defense lines for the upcoming battle.  The Steward had worked tirelessly throughout the day.  When he wasn’t working on the defense of the city, he was busy encouraging and heartening the soldiers.  After Malek’s show of strength the previous evening, the army of Gondor had desperately needed someone strong to hold them together and help them gather their courage.  With Aragorn gone, this task had fallen to Faramir.  The Steward had been there for the men, just as he had countless times in the past.  It seemed to Gandalf that all it took was a simple smile or nod from Faramir, and the soldiers were once more ready to throw their fate to the wind and defend the city at all costs, even that of their lives.

 

There were very few men to whom Gandalf gave complete trust and respect.  Aragorn was one, and Faramir was quickly becoming another.

 

Gandalf’s gaze moved once more, following the curve of the wall directly below where he stood until his eyes fell on yet another who had given so selflessly to the defense of a city that was not even his own.  Gimli had also been working faithfully throughout the day, not even taking time to stop and get some rest.  With the aid of a small group of men, the dwarf had reinforced the north gate and fortified many of the weaker spots on the wall.

 

Gandalf let out a small sigh and allowed his eyes to wander further from the city, scanning the base of the Ered Nimrais before turning his gaze west, to the sparkling rainbow of the Ciril.  The river looked strangely calm and peaceful, showing no signs of the great chaos and confusion that had surrounded it just hours earlier as every craft or vessel that could float was used to evacuate the women, children, elderly, and wounded from the city.  Far down the river, Gandalf could just make out the small forms of the last of the boats as they disappeared around a corner of the waterway.  Now, all that remained within the city were the defenders and a few civilians who had decided to stay and help in whatever way they were able.  _‘And a few who remained even when they should have gone!’_ Gandalf thought somewhat wryly, his eyes returning once more to the field before the city, where a small form scurried here and there on different errands.

 

The boy, Dar, had absolutely refused to leave the city, putting up such a fight that he had left one soldier limping and another with a black eye when they had tried to force him onto one of the boats.  Luckily, Gandalf had been passing nearby at the time and had come to the boy’s, or perhaps the soldier’s, rescue.  He had agreed to let Dar stay within the city until his father’s return, as long as the boy helped out by running errands or delivering messages.  Dar had been only too willing to agree, and Gandalf was fairly sure the boy would offer to help out in the battle as well, if given a chance.

 

_‘And so the young are left to defend the city while those who are older and hold a larger responsibility flee!’_ Gandalf thought bitterly, anger drawing his thick eyebrows together.  He had just learned that the coward Merton and his two snake advisors had slipped from the city on one of the boats.  Not only that, but they had used the entire vessel to carry the Mayor’s lavish belongings, refusing to allow any others on the boat, and forcing the women and children to wait even longer to be evacuated.  This so enraged Gandalf that he had to force his mind to think of other things.  

 

Gandalf stood silently upon the wall for several long minutes, barely registering the fact that Gimli had climbed and joined him.  The two stood in silence for a while, watching the orange ball of the sun begin it’s descent behind the mountain.

 

“Where are they?” Gimli at last spoke up, his voice pitched low.  Gandalf looked at the dwarf sympathetically, knowing of whom Gimli was speaking, and also knowing that the dwarf had merely spoken his thoughts out loud and did not expect an answer.  Gimli was not even looking at him; instead his gaze searched the growing darkness before the city, as if searching desperately for some sign of his friends. 

 

After another several minutes had passed, Gimli looked at the wizard, his dark eyes filled with concern.  “Do you think something has happened that is keeping them from returning?”

 

Gandalf shook his head slowly, his eyes also flickering out toward the dark shadow of the Ered Nimrais.  “I am afraid that there is a thousand different things that could be keeping them,” he said quietly, “and not all of them bad, either.  We will just have to wait and see.”

 

“I hate waiting,” Gimli muttered to himself.  

 

Another long minute of silence followed before Gimli once more spoke up, his voice so quiet that Gandalf had to strain to hear him.   “I have the strangest feeling that something is very wrong.  I can’t explain it, nor can I make it go away.  I fear for our friends.”

 

Gandalf could only stare at the dwarf in surprise, wondering at Gimli’s sudden pessimistic attitude.  He did not take Gimli’s dark premonitions lightly, and his own fears began to build within him.

 

Gimli suddenly let out a low, raw laugh.  “Knowing Aragorn and Legolas,” he said lightly, “They will show up with the whole of Malek’s army hot on their tails, and we shall be forced to rescue them.”

 

“Then we must be ready,” Gandalf said seriously, his hand going up to absently stroke his beard.  “And we must hope that they have learned something that will help us defeat this dark army and its master.

 

*******

 

Arwen straightened gracefully from the act of replacing a bandage around the leg of one of the soldiers.  Most of the seriously injured had been evacuated, and only the ones the healers had feared moving remained.  She glanced around, her gaze drifting up and down the rows of beds.  Only a quarter of the beds were filled now, yet Arwen knew the number would be much greater after tonight.

 

She sighed and glanced out the nearest window at the setting sun.  She was somewhat surprised at how late it was, for it seemed to her only a couple of hours had passed since Aragorn had strode in to tell her of his plans and bid her farewell.  Since that time, she had not had a single moment to herself, busy tending to the wounded men and helping prepare for the upcoming casualties.  

 

Now Arwen found herself staring at the sinking sun, her thoughts turning to Aragorn.  She wondered if he had returned yet, then quickly discarded the idea.  She was sure he would have come and told her upon his immediate arrival back into the city.  She frowned with worry as the darkness outside grew, and she tried to push away the sudden sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach.

 

A loud moan from one of the beds on the other end of the room yanked her from her dark thoughts.  Swiftly pushing her worries aside, she made her way to the bed of a young soldier who had suffered a bad cut to his abdomen.  Despite the best efforts of all the healers, including Arwen, the wound continued to bleed, slowly draining the life from the young man.  The bandage was once more covered with blood, and Arwen set to the task of changing the cloths and making the soldier as comfortable as possible.  Pain filled eyes looked up at her as she worked, and Arwen felt her heart wrench as she realized there was really nothing to be done to save the young man.  She placed her hand upon his forehead, feeling his clammy skin and listening to the short rasps of his breath, her heart weeping even as she tried to force an encouraging smile to her lips.

 

She finished changing the bandage, than turned and retrieved a small cup of water.  Holding the water to the young man’s lips, she lifted his head slightly, allowing him to sip the cool liquid.  When she had finished, the soldier reached out and grasped her hand tightly, his eyes filled with unspoken emotion.  Arwen smiled down at him gently, tenderly brushing a stray lock of his hair from his brow as she softly began to sing.  The words of her song were in her own language, but the simple melody seemed to fill the small room, soothing and calming the hurting occupants.  The low moans slowly died until the only sound filling the room was the elf princess’s sweet voice.

 

Arwen sang for several minutes, feeling the tight grip of the soldier slowly loosen as he drifted toward sleep.  She finished her song, then quietly rose and moved toward the next bed.

 

“That was beautiful, lady Arwen,” a quiet voice spoke up behind her.

 

Arwen turned and smiled down at Merry, brushing an unruly lock of hair back from her face.  “Thank you, Merry,” she said quietly.  “Did you find out anything?”

 

Merry dropped his eyes and shook his head.  “No,” he whispered softly.

 

Arwen hid her own disappointment and tried to cheer the small hobbit.  “I am sure they will all be just fine,” she said encouragingly, glancing once more toward the sinking sun.  “We must give them more time.”

 

Merry just nodded and did not answer.

 

“Where are Sam and Frodo?” Arwen asked curiously.

 

Merry at last raised his eyes from the floor and met Arwen’s gaze.  “Faramir set up a place where the soldiers can go to rest and get something to eat,” he explained, “Sam and Frodo are helping out there.”

 

Arwen nodded, then continued to work her way down the beds of injured soldiers.  Merry followed after, helping the elf princess by fetching fresh bandages or water.  He liked having something to do.  It kept his mind off his worry for Pippin and the others.  Yet the further the sun sunk toward the horizon, the more worried Merry became, until he was unable to keep his mind on his task.  He nearly spilled the water twice, and Arwen had to call his name several times before she managed to get his attention.  

 

Merry smiled at her apologetically, but it was obvious that he was greatly troubled.  “I’m sorry,” he said self-consciously, unable to meet Arwen’s eyes.  “I just have this horrible feeling that something dreadful has happened, and that I am never going to see him again,” he explained in a choked voice, trying desperately to control his emotions.

 

Arwen knelt before him, placing both hands on his shoulders.  “You must not give in to despair, Merry,” she said softly, “for if you do, than Malek has won!”

 

Merry nodded, blinking rapidly to clear his eyes of moisture.  “I know,” he whispered.  “It is just so hard.  I do not understand how you can remain so calm.”

 

Arwen laughed softly, her eyes showing a deep sadness.  “It is not easy, my small friend,” she replied gently.  “Yet I have had years of practice while this is still new to you.  Have faith, Merry, for if we do not look to the future and prepare, there may be no future.”

 

Merry felt himself shiver at her words, but he quickly pushed aside his feelings of despair and looked up at Arwen with fresh determination.  “What do you want me to do?” he asked quietly.

 

 

*****

 

Legolas moved swiftly and silently through the mass of heavy boulders and underbrush that marked the small trail he was following.  His eyes remained focused on the ground beneath him as he searched desperately for any sign of Pippin among the tracks of orcs.  He guessed that he had traveled only some fifty yards away from the spot where Aragorn and he had split up, yet the path he followed twisted and turned so much that the small glade was lost to sight.

 

He could sense the presence of orcs nearby, yet not so near as to cause him immediate alarm.  His bow remained strapped to his back, but he held one of his knives before him, his entire body tense and watchful for anything out of the ordinary.

 

He did not like the fact that he and Aragorn had been forced to split up, yet he could see no other way.  The sun was sinking fast, and there was simply not enough time to explore both orc trails together.  This way was more dangerous, yet if it allowed them to find Pippin, or at least find out what had happened to him, than it was worth the risk.

 

Legolas continued on, the ground beneath him beginning to climb upward.  A few yards further down the path, the tracks led onto a high, rocky shelf.  Legolas swore softly, as he realized the hard rock would make it nearly impossible to find the orc tracks, let alone any sign of Pippin.  He glanced about him, uncertain whether to press on in the hopes of picking up the trail on the other side of the shelf, or turning back.  He did not want to turn back if there was any chance of missing Pippin, yet wandering around with night fast approaching was neither safe, nor wise.

 

Legolas remained motionless for a few moments, indecision tearing at him.  He could only hope that Aragorn had had more luck than he had.  _‘And if not…_ ’ Legolas did not allow himself to finish the thought.

 

He glanced to his left, where the path fell away in a steep drop off perhaps twenty yards from where he stood.   The ledge looked over the valley he had just come from, as well as offering a wide view of much of the land around him.  Legolas moved closer to the edge, hoping to see some sign of Aragorn, or perhaps the orc party he hunted.  He was careful to keep the setting sun to his back, the bright glare offering a shield in case any unfriendly eyes were turned upward to the rock shelf.

 

When Legolas reached the edge of the rock face, he dropped to his knees, his eyes searching the valley below for any sign of movement.  His sharp eyes perused every dark shadow and every clump of trees for some sign of the enemy.  Everything in the valley seemed completely still and calm, and yet Legolas sensed that something was out of place.  An unnatural quiet had settled over the mountain, and he felt a strange tenseness in the land about him.

 

Legolas remained kneeling at the cliff edge for several more minutes before his senses alerted him that he was no longer alone upon the rock face.  He rose and turned swiftly, raising his knife, his eyes scanning the shadows of the path he had just come up.  Before he could even consider finding a place to hide, a cloaked form came into view around a bend in the trail, heading straight toward where Legolas stood.

 

Legolas tensed, and then suddenly relaxed, his knife lowering to his side as he recognized Aragorn.  His friend was walking with his head bent toward the ground, and Legolas knew that he had not been spotted yet.  He frowned, wondering why Aragorn had followed him.  Perhaps the man had found something, yet why had he not whistled as they had planned.  

 

_‘Something is not right,’_ Legolas thought as he continued to watch his friend’s approach.  He found it very strange that Aragorn had yet to look up from the path, and all his senses seemed to be screaming at him that something was wrong.  He looked behind Aragorn, thinking that the ex-ranger was being followed.  Nothing moved on the path behind his friend, yet Legolas could not shake the feeling that something evil was approaching.

 

His frown deepened as Aragorn turned from the main path at exactly the spot that Legolas had earlier, still without raising his head.  “Aragorn,” he called out softly, trying to get his friend’s attention.

 

Aragorn paid no attention to Legolas’s call, but continued walking forward with bowed head.

 

“Aragorn,” Legolas repeated, this time a little louder, his voice echoing with his uncertainty.

 

Still Aragorn strode forward with no sign that he had heard Legolas, and with head still bowed to the ground.  He was now only a couple of yards away.

 

Legolas was truly becoming alarmed, and his raging senses were confusing him.  He found himself raising his knife once more and taking a small step back, aware of the drop off directly behind him.  “Aragorn,” he said one last time, his voice firm and controlled this time, and full of demand.

 

At last, the figure before him raised it’s head, and Legolas found himself staring deep into the blackest eyes he had ever seen as a wave of cold evil washed over him and fought to entrap him in a prison of ice.

 

_‘Malek_ ,’ was Legolas’s only thought as he fought to free himself from the cold settling over him.  The creature, still in Aragorn’s form, was slowly approaching, a long knife held in its hand, an evil grin upon its face.  Legolas fought against panic and forced himself to remember Aragorn’s words on how to free himself from Malek’s evil stare.  With a great effort he wrenched his eyes from the creature approaching and flung himself to the side.

 

The ice around him seemed to shatter and the next thing Legolas was aware of was landing hard on his side upon the ground, his knife miraculously still clenched in his fist.  He did not stay in that position for long, instinctively rolling onto his knees and raising his knife above him, just in time to block the downward thrust of Malek’s weapon.  

 

Legolas’s arm shook with the force of the blow, yet with a great effort he thrust back, knocking Malek away from him and giving him the precious seconds he needed to gain his feet.  Malek stood a few paces away, an evil expression on his face, a mix of glee and hate.  Legolas could not help the feeling of horror that washed over him at seeing such an evil expression through the features of a friend.  He had to remind himself that it was not Aragorn with whom he fought, but a creature of complete evil.

 

“Time to play, elf,” Malek hissed, and Legolas felt a shiver run down his spine.

 

Malek sprang forward once more, dagger sweeping out, and only Legolas’s lightning reflexes kept him from being cut in two.  He sprang back, sweeping out his knife to parry Malek’s next attack, then stepped forward to begin his own assault.  Every movement was quick and precise, as the two combatants began a fluid dance of attack and retreat.  Legolas was somewhat surprised to find that he and Malek seemed evenly matched.  At least, Malek was forced to go on the defensive just as much as Legolas was.  This seemed extremely odd to the elf, for he knew all about Aragorn’s fight with the creature.  He wondered at first if Malek was merely toying with him, as he had with Aragorn, and yet it did not seem so to him.  He was not given the opportunity to ponder this, however, for the fight with Malek was taking all his concentration and effort.

 

He twisted smoothly away from yet another attack, dancing backward a few steps before pressing forward once more.  He ducked a swing of Malek’s knife, coming up under the blow and slashing out at the creature’s arm.  Malek hissed as the elf’s knife cut a shallow groove along his arm, and he backed away a few steps, staring at Legolas with pure hatred.

 

Legolas considered pressing forward, using the advantage of first blood to throw his enemy off guard, and yet he also desperately needed a brief respite with which to catch his breath.  The two combatants regarded each other warily from a few feet apart, their chests heaving and sweat evident on both faces.  Legolas realized with a thrill of hope that Malek was not healing himself, and he could only attribute this to the fact that the sun was still out.  Malek did not have all his powers.

 

At last Malek smiled cruelly, lifting his arm and licking the slow flow of blood from the cut.  “It has been a while since I’ve tasted elf blood,” the creature hissed.  “I shall enjoy killing you and feeding upon your sweet blood.”

 

Before Legolas could respond, the figure before him began to change, the form of Aragorn melting away and being replaced by something much more hideous.  Legolas’s features twisted with horror as the form of Malek was revealed to him for the first time.  The creature stood upright upon two legs, and two arms hung at its side, yet all semblances to humans stopped there.  Malek’s skin was completely black and hung upon him like some leathery scale.  His arms were longer than any humans and seemed to bend at two joints instead of one.  Long hands ended in four sharp claws that thrust forward like knives.  His head was formed much like that of a dog, with a long, ugly muzzle, a high forehead, and pointed ears.  Dagger sharp teeth glinted in the fading light as Malek leered at Legolas, and hate-filled eyes glowed almost yellow.

 

Legolas raised his knife, pulling his second blade from its sheath, a myriad of emotions running through him all at once.  He was surprised that Malek had dared attack while the sun was still out, and he was certain that Malek’s reduced powers were due to this fact.  He was also certain that each minute the sun sunk lower, Malek would gain more power until he once more became invincible.  Legolas had to find a way to destroy him before that time.  He was being offered an opportunity to rid the world of a horrible creature, and he could not fail.

 

Legolas saw a glint in Malek’s eyes, and knew the creature was about to attack once more.  He took a quick step back, filling his lungs and letting out a shrill whistle, the sound carrying the message of urgency and danger.  He prepared to whistle yet again, but Malek attacked once more with growing intensity, and Legolas soon found himself fighting for his life.  He set his mind fully to the task of defeating the creature before him, or at least holding him off until help could arrive.  

 

_‘If help arrives,’_ Legolas thought, desperately hoping and praying that Aragorn had heard his cry for aid and would arrive in time.  

 

Behind the two struggling combatants, the sun slowly inched further and further toward the horizon.

 

********

 

Aragorn had only gone about one hundred yards down the trail when he heard the sharp whistle.  He had been heading steadily east, following the trail of orcs and searching for any sign of Pippin.  As of yet, he had found no sign, and the further he went, the slower his steps became as an odd feeling had come over him.  He could not explain the feeling, yet he had found himself strangely reluctant to go on.

 

Now, his entire body stood frozen and tense, listening.  The whistle had been distant, yet the message clear, and Aragorn remained motionless only a moment before turning and beginning to race back up the path he had come.  He ignored the branches and brush that tore at his clothes, and his feet seemed to barely touch the ground in his haste.

 

He reached the clearing where he and Legolas had separated and only took a moment to orient himself before taking off again down the path Legolas had gone.  His heart was racing and he barely paid attention to the land around him in his haste to reach Legolas.  He listened carefully for another whistle, yet when he heard nothing, his fears only grew.

 

He found that he had to slow his pace somewhat to make sure that he was indeed following the right path.  He unsheathed his sword, using the sharp blade to hack away any brush or branches that got in his way.  He grew more desperate to reach Legolas as each second of silence passed, and his breath came in short, sharp gasps.

 

He had gone about fifty yards from the clearing when the ground began to slope upwards, the path clearing a bit.  Aragorn picked up his speed once more, debating whether or not to call out to his friend.  He guessed that he was nearing the place where the whistle had come from, and he kept alert, his eyes searching each side of the path for any sign of Legolas.

 

Aragorn rounded a tight corner of the path, and then froze at the sight before him.  Thirty yards down the trail, balancing perilously on the edge of a steep drop off, Legolas was locked in desperate combat with a dark creature.  It took only a second for everything to register in Aragorn’s mind before he was moving once more, calling out his presence to Legolas.

 

Legolas heard the call, but was too busy fighting for his life to respond or even turn and look toward Aragorn.  He had been right, and as the sun had sunk lower, Malek had seemed to grow stronger, forcing Legolas more and more into the defensive.  The elf was covered in sweat and blood from numerous cuts, and yet he felt a wave of relief hit him as he heard Aragorn’s call.  He glanced desperately toward the sinking sun, knowing that time was swiftly running out.

 

Malek also had heard Aragorn’s call, and the creature let out a hiss of anger.  Legolas thought he saw doubt flicker briefly in the creature’s eyes as Malek also looked toward the sun.

 

“Now your game is over,” Legolas gasped, his sharp ears picking up the sound of Aragorn racing toward them.

 

Malek hissed for a second time, and then a strange light entered the creature’s eyes.  Legolas felt a thrill of warning a second before Malek leapt forward once more.  Legolas slashed out with his knife, cutting deeply into the skin of Malek’s chest, yet the creature seemed to hardly notice as he closed in on the elf and wrapped him in a bear hug.  

 

Legolas felt all the air leave his lungs at once, Malek’s weight driving him backwards.  He heard Aragorn’s shout of warning a second before he felt the ground give beneath his feet.

 

Aragorn was still several yards away and could only let out a shout, watching in horror as Legolas, still wrapped in Malek’s arms, tumbled from the rocky face and disappeared from sight.


	18. Capture

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Fellowship is reuniting, but may face a new threat that is hunting them all.

_Legolas felt all the air leave his lungs at once, Malek’s weight driving him backwards.  He heard Aragorn’s shout of warning a second before he felt the ground give beneath his feet._

Aragorn was still several yards away and could only let out a shout, watching in horror as Legolas, still wrapped in Malek’s arms, tumbled from the rocky face and disappeared from sight.

Time seemed to stand still, then speed up as the sun’s last rays disappeared behind the horizon, casting the land in the darkness of night.  Aragorn’s cry of warning and dismay echoed through the mountains as he stumbled forward, his eyes glued disbelievingly to the spot where Legolas had disappeared over the cliff edge.  His heart seemed to have stopped beating, and he struggled to breathe past the knot of fear that had formed in his throat.  _‘Too late,’_ his mind screamed, ‘ _I’m too late!’_

His entire body seemed to have gone numb, and as he neared the edge of the cliff, his steps slowed of their own accord.  He dreaded what he would see; yet at the same time, he had to know.  

 

Aragorn was still a few steps away from the cliff edge when he heard loud shouts coming from the opposite end of the rock shelf.  He whirled, his body instantly becoming alert as he made out the forms of several orcs making their way across the rocky outcropping in his direction.  A strange rage seemed to suddenly fill his veins, coursing through him like the uncontrollable torrents of a flooded river.  His grief and anguish seemed to coalesce, building and forming into a bitter fury, completely blocking out all thought and reasoning.  He raised his sword, letting out a hoarse shout and strode forward to meet his enemies.

 

The small company of orcs that rushed toward him were not prepared for the vehemence of Aragorn’s attack, and they were soon falling back before his wrath.  For his part, Aragorn was barely aware of the orcs around him as he swung and hacked at them with his sword.  His mind was fighting a battle of its own, trying to break clear of the swell of emotion that boiled dangerously throughout his body.

 

Aragorn was not sure whether minutes or hours had passed when he suddenly found himself alone upon the rock shelf once more, the ground around him littered with the bodies of dead orcs.  He was covered in sweat and blood, though whether the blood was his own or his victim’s, Aragorn was not sure, nor did he particularly care.  His breath came in hard gasps and his entire body seemed to tremble with unreleased emotion. He could distantly make out the sound of more orcs racing up the path towards him, shouting to each other in their harsh tongue.  He stood waiting for them, a fey light in his eyes and his bloody sword raised and ready.

 

It was at this time that a soft breeze swept through the mountains, carried from the lower plains and smelling of life and freshness.  The gentle gust of air seemed to whisper soothingly through the trees surrounding the rock face before continuing on to wrap around the lone man, caressing his face and chasing away the foul stench of death and blood.  Almost unwillingly, Aragorn drew in a deep breath, the cool breeze filling him with a strange peacefulness as his sword arm lowered and his body relaxed.

 

It was but a moment, which was quickly shattered by the approaching shouts of orcs, yet it was all that was needed.  Aragorn raised his sword once more, but the fire that had previously run through his veins was now gone, his reasoning slowly returning.  He could tell from the shouts that the approaching orc party was much larger than the first, and too many for him to defeat on his own.

 

Aragorn knew that he had two choices; he could stay and fight, in which case he would surely perish, or he could flee.  His mind baulked at the idea of running, yet somehow he knew it was really the only choice.  Someone had to get news of what had happened back to Calembel, and Aragorn seemed to be the only one left.

 

This thought caused a wrench of grief so strong it bordered on physical pain, and Aragorn had to fight down his anguish once more.  _‘Do not think,’_ he told himself firmly, _‘Do not feel.’_   He had to survive, if not for himself, then for those that awaited back within the city.  _‘If they do not fall this night, as well,’_ he thought bitterly before he forced his mind blank once more.

 

The shouts of the orcs were drawing nearer, and Aragorn knew that he had to get out of there fast, or there would be no escape at all.  He glanced over his shoulder, back the way he had come.  There was something he had to do before he left, something he had to find out, despite the dread that stole through him at the very idea.  He turned and began working his way swiftly back toward the cliff edge, still fighting to keep his mind free from the torrent of emotions that ripped at him.

 

He had only taken a few paces, however, when an arrow flew from the darkness and clattered loudly to the stone directly behind him.  Aragorn whirled as a hail of others followed the first arrow, the black darts bouncing and clattering off the rocks all around him.  Aragorn swore, and then began to run toward the cliff edge once more, trying to ignore the shafts in his desperation to find out what had happened to Legolas.  

 

This, however, was not to be.  Aragorn had only taken a few more steps when one of the arrows found their mark.  He stumbled forward, a cry involuntarily leaving his lips as the arrow slammed into his side, tearing a deep gash through his flesh.  The force of the blow nearly knocked him to his knees, and his hand flew to the wound, feeling the warm flow of blood over his fingers.  The arrow had only grazed him, yet the cut was deep and was already bleeding heavily.

 

Aragorn realized that while he remained upon the rock shelf he was an open target, and the closer the orcs got, the better their chances of hitting him, even when shooting in the dark.  He had to reach the cover of the path, and soon, or there would be no escape.  

 

Giving one last glance toward the cliff edge, Aragorn let out a sob of frustration and pain before turning and racing back toward the path he had come up earlier in his search for Legolas.  He knew that he could very well be racing straight into another orc party, yet he had to take that chance.  Hearing the sound of the orcs in hot pursuit, Aragorn pressed forward even faster, gritting his teeth against the pain in his side.  Arrows continued to land all about him, and Aragorn tensed, expecting one of the black darts to strike him any second.  

 

Yet somehow, miraculously, no more of the arrows found their mark as Aragorn at last reached the relative shelter of the path.  His wound was sending burning fingers of fire up his side, yet he forced himself to continue running, slowly leaving the shouts of the orcs behind.  

 

He raced on for several minutes, his senses alert for any sign of orcs before him while still paying attention to those behind.  As soon as the ground leveled out, he left the main path, slowing his pace just enough to weave silently and carefully through the boulders, scrub, and underbrush surrounding him.  His breathing was ragged, and the pain in his side was growing in intensity.  He could feel the slow trickle of blood down his ribs, and he knew the wound would need tending to soon, before blood loss made him too weak.

 

As the minutes dragged on, it took all the skills Aragorn had learned as a Ranger to remain ahead of his pursuers and to hide his trail.  He kept his mind a careful blank, refusing to allow any thought or emotion to steal his senses.  He knew it would be a miracle if he somehow managed to survive the night.  He was alone and wounded in mountains that literally swarmed with orcs, and he could feel himself getting weaker and weaker with each passing moment.

 

Stumbling to a halt beside a giant tree, Aragorn leaned back against the support, closing his eyes and breathing heavily.  He listened carefully for any sound of those that hunted him, yet he heard nothing.  Still, the night was far too quiet, and Aragorn knew that danger remained close.  

 

He took the opportunity of his brief rest to carefully examine the wound on his side as well as he could in the dark.  The cut was deep and ran diagonally down his left ribs, fresh blood oozing out with every breath he took.  His tunic was stained dark with it, and Aragorn realized he would have to be careful not to leave a trail of blood for the orcs to follow.  Of course, if they drew close enough, they would not need a trail, for the scent alone would lead them directly to him. 

 

  _‘I will just have to make sure they don’t get close enough,’_ Aragorn thought grimly, raising his head and looking around him.  It was difficult to see far in any direction, due more to the uneven terrain than the darkness of night.  The tree he rested against stood alone amidst a small thicket of underbrush and tall grass that poked their way up through the hard ground of the mountain.  The tree looked mostly dead, it’s bark rough and its branches showing few signs of life.  Aragorn studied it closely, searching for any way to use the tree’s height to further extend his vision.  The nearest branch sturdy enough to hold his weight towered at least ten feet above the ground, and Aragorn knew it was too far to even attempt, wounded as he was.

 

_‘If Legolas were here, he could make it up this with no effort.’_   The thought had come unbidden and Aragorn winced.  He knew the torment this line of thought would bring and so he savagely thrust it aside, focusing once more on his own survival. 

 

In the distance, he could just make out the dark shadow of a high peak rising to his left.  Pushing away from the tree, Aragorn began making his way in that direction, deciding to work his way back toward the rock face of the mountain in the hopes of reaching a deep cave or cavern in which to hide.  He knew that the longer he remained out in the open, the slimmer his chances of survival became.  He had to find shelter, and fast.

 

Shouts and loud horns began blaring distantly back from the direction he had come, and Aragorn pushed his tired body into a fast jog.  His eyes scanned the tall rock face before him, searching for the dark opening of a cave where he could retreat and tend his wounds, both those seen and unseen

 

******

 

Falling…

It was strange, but he had no memory of that.  No memory of the endless seconds it must have taken as his body hurtled toward the ground.  Nor did he have any memory of actually striking the bottom.  It was as if his body continued to float in air, separated and distant from reality.  His mind drifted somewhere between awake and unconscious, his thoughts skipping across the black void like small stones across a still pond. 

 

A slow tingling swept through his body, feeling as if a thousand small needles were poking into his flesh.  The sensation was not painful, but it wasn’t particularly comfortable either, and he instinctively attempted to shy away from it, retreating back into the deeper blackness of his mind.

 

Several minutes passed before his mind began to drift once more toward consciousness, encountering the tingling sensation yet again, but this time unable to retreat from it.  The closer he drew to complete wakefulness, the more intense the sensation became, changing from mere uncomfortable to painful.  The needles, which had seemed soft at first, now seemed to be stabbing into his body, leaving no part of him untouched from their fierce attack.

 

Legolas groaned, his eyelids fluttering slightly, his entire body on fire.  Everything hurt, and as Legolas once more gained consciousness and his memory returned, he could not keep back yet another groan.  His eyes fluttered open, then immediately shut as a wave of nausea struck him.  He swallowed hard, fighting down the bile that rose in his throat.  Several minutes passed before he was once more able to open his eyes, then several more seconds before the world stopped spinning and tilting in his vision.  

 

Legolas could tell by the darkness around him that the sun had set some time ago.  Even so, his vision seemed unusually dim, a fact that sent a surge of fear through him.  He could barely make out his surroundings, and even had it been dead of night, his vision should have been keener than that.  His head ached terribly, merging with the pain from the rest of his body.

 

Legolas squinted upward, making out the dim outline of the cliff rising above him.  He was amazed that he had lived after a fall from such a great height, and he supposed he owed this to the fact that he had somehow managed to fall on a thick patch of fern growing near the base of the cliff.  Large boulders and hard rock surrounded the patch on both sides, proving just how lucky he had been.  If he had fallen just a few more feet to either side, he most likely would not have survived.  

 

Distantly, he wondered what had happened to Malek.  He was fairly certain the dark creature had fallen from the cliff with him, yet his senses told him that he was now alone.  He seriously doubted that the fall had managed to kill Malek, yet this made him wonder where exactly the creature was, and why he had not finished Legolas off while the elf lay unconscious?  Had he thought Legolas dead?  It didn't seem likely that he would have left without first making sure.  A thousand questions ran through Legolas's mind, and had no answer to any of them, so he decided to put them aside for the time being.

 

Gritting his teeth in pain, Legolas set about discovering the extent of damage to his body.  He closed his eyes, relaxing into the thick bed of fern, and stealing himself against the pain he knew was coming.  Then, slowly, starting at his feet and moving up, he began to systematically flex and squeeze the muscles of his body.  The process was a slow and painful one, and Legolas kept his eyes squeezed tightly shut throughout the whole ordeal, his breath coming in and out in short rasps.

 

His entire body was obviously quite beaten and bruised, yet the majority of his pain seemed to focus on three spots; his left knee, his right side, and his head.  Taking a deep breath, Legolas pushed himself into a sitting position, fighting off the dizziness and nausea that once more assailed him.  He raised a shaking hand to his head, wincing when his fingers came in contact with a large lump above his left temple.  When he once more lowered his hand, his palm came away wet and sticky with blood.  

 

Legolas glanced around him, moving his head slowly so as not to aggravate the throbbing pain in his temples.  He spotted a large boulder resting a few feet away and began to scoot his reluctant body in that direction.  When he at last reached it, he reclined his body painfully against the rough stone, taking a few minutes to catch his breath before conducting a more thorough examination of his injuries.

 

His tunic was torn and dirty and the skin appearing through the rips was bruised and scratched.  Legolas skimmed over these lesser wounds, moving on to the spot on his side where pain radiated with every breath he took.  Gently he lifted his tunic, examining the wound.  A bruise about the size of Gimli's head covered his ribs; the skin already turned a bright blue and purple. From the pain each breath caused, he reasoned that the ribs beneath were seriously bruised, if not broken.  He could vaguely remember striking against an outcrop of rock during his fall, and guessed that this wound was a product of that encounter.

 

Letting out a painful sigh, Legolas continued his inspection, running his hands carefully down his left leg until he reached his knee.  He could already tell the limb was horribly swollen, and he wondered vaguely how he would manage to walk with a wrenched knee.

 

He knew that he had already remained in one place far longer that what was safe, especially with Malek and his orcs wandering about.  He still could not understand where Malek had gone or why the creature had left him untouched; yet he was not about to question his good luck so far.  Nor did he intend to press that luck.  He had to find a place to hide and spend the night, for he knew his time was swiftly running out.  He could sense orcs nearby, and knew they were drawing closer with each wasted minute.  He was worried about Aragorn, and hoped the ranger had managed to find Pippin and work his way to safety.

 

Taking a deep, steadying breath, Legolas prepared to rise.  It took him three tries to gain his feet, and when he was finally standing, he feared he would pass out again.  Black dots danced across his vision and his head pounded so painfully he felt like throwing up.  To top it all off, his knee was sending fingers of fire up and down his leg, throwing him off balance as he tried to keep his weight off the injured limb.  It was a miracle that he managed to remain standing as he swayed back and forth, trying to fight off the screaming complaints of his body.

 

When he had at last managed to somewhat gain control of his body, he glanced around for something he could use as a staff or crutch to aid his walking.  He found a long branch lying a few feet off, and managed to limp to it, then somehow bend over and retrieve it.  This simple task left him drained and pale, and he once again wondered how he would manage to escape from this place and find some shelter.

 

He could sense the orcs drawing nearer and nearer, and his eyes desperately sought for any sign of his weapons.  His luck remained with him, for he was able to find one of his knives, half hidden in the same bed of fern in which he had landed.  He searched for his bow, yet could find no sign of the weapon.  This greatly upset him, for the bow had been a gift from Galadriel, lady of Lorien, and he had treasured it dearly.  

 

Realizing that his continued search was merely wasting precious time, Legolas reluctantly set out away from the cliff, heading east along the easiest path he could find.  His entire body screamed in protest at every step, yet somehow, Legolas managed to continue on, stumbling forward and nearly falling on several occasions.  He could feel his body radiating with unusual heat, and knew he had a fever, a testimony to how badly he had been hurt.  Elves very rarely caught fever, and when they did, they were able to heal quickly.  His usually graceful movements were slow and choppy, and his sharp mind and senses were quickly becoming fogged with pain.

 

It was partly due to this fact that Legolas did not hear the band of orcs until they were nearly upon him.  When his mind at last registered their presence, he looked around him wildly, searching for a place to hide.  Unfortunately, his pounding head was not prepared for the quick movement, and he stumbled back as his vision suddenly went black.  He managed to catch himself against the trunk of a tree, unable to stop a hiss of pain as his weight landed on his bad leg.  He could hear the steady tramp of the orcs moving down the trail toward him and he once more looked around for a place to hide.

 

Too late.  The lead orc rounded the bend in the path, stopping short as he caught sight of the lone elf leaning against the tree directly before him.  This orc was soon joined by its companions as they stood regarding their find.

 

Legolas raised his knife, blinking rapidly in an attempt to clear his vision.  He had neither his balance nor his wits about him, and the lead orc must have sensed this, for he smiled maliciously, motioning to his companions to fan out and flank the elf.

 

Distantly, Legolas realized that he was in a lot of trouble, as he desperately tried to come up with a plan of escape.  However, it seemed as if a dark cloud had settled over his mind, affecting both his thoughts and his vision.  The faces of the orcs were nothing but blurs as they crept closer, and Legolas had to fight down his rising panic. 

 

He swiped out with his knife, hoping to keep the creatures at bay, yet they only laughed at his feeble attempt, dodging his swing and creeping in closer.  

 

It was almost pitiful; a lone, injured elf, attempting to fight off nearly a dozen large, heavily armed orcs, with only a single long knife to aid him.  The fight did not last long, as all the orcs converged upon Legolas at once, driving the elf to the ground and easily disarming him.

 

Pain and exhaustion warred within Legolas, leaving little room for fear as he waited for the final blow that would end his life.  When several seconds had passed and still the blow had not come, Legolas at last raised his head, looking up into the smirking face of the orc captain standing above him.

 

"Get up," the orc snarled nastily in his own tongue, the words sounding harsh in Legolas's ears.

 

When the elf made no move to obey but merely stared blankly up at him, the orc captain reached down and tangled his hand in the long, blond hair.  With a cruel yank, he forced Legolas to his feet, motioning two of his companions forward to hold the elf upright.

 

Legolas fought to keep from crying out at the combined pain of his head injury, and the agony from his leg.  He refused to give the orc captain the satisfaction of knowing how badly he hurt.

 

The orc reached forward, grabbing Legolas cruelly by the chin and forcing the elf to look at him.  His sharp nails dug into the soft flesh of the elf's jaw, and the orc smiled as Legolas involuntarily flinched.

 

"Where is your companion?" the orc captain demanded, gripping his prisoner's jaw even tighter.

 

It took Legolas a few seconds to realize that the orc was speaking of Aragorn.  A thrill of hope ran through him; if the orcs were looking for Aragorn, it meant the ranger had not yet been caught.  He met the orcs dark eyes with a defiant gaze of his own, his jaw firmly clenched.

 

The orc’s eyes narrowed.  He released Legolas's jaw a second before his fist slammed into the elf's side, directly over his bruised ribs.  Legolas could not stop his cry of pain, and he would have doubled over had he not been held upright by the two orcs on either side of him.  

 

The orc captain laughed, grabbing Legolas's chin once more and forcing the elf's pain clouded eyes upward.  "Know this, elf," he hissed maliciously.  "My master sent me out to retrieve you and bring you back to him.  A few minutes with him, and you shall quickly loose all your arrogance.  You will bow at his feet and beg for mercy."

 

Legolas met the hate filled eyes of the orc, attempting to hide the fear that ran through him at the creature’s words.  "I will bow to no one," he grated out, his eyes still flashing with defiance.  He tensed, expecting another blow, yet to his surprise, the orc merely laughed.

 

"We shall soon see," the orc replied, reaching out and placing his thumb firmly against his prisoner's chest.  Slowly, never losing his evil grin, the orc began to apply pressure, pushing his finger up beneath Legolas's sternum and against the elf's lungs.  

 

The pain was excruciating, and Legolas was unable even to cry out as the pressure built.  His eyes blurred with tears of agony, and the last thing he heard before he lost consciousness was the evil laughter of his orc captors.

 

*****

 

Pippin huddled quiet and miserable beneath the leaves of a giant tree, his cloak wrapped about him in a feeble attempt for warmth.  The hobbit remained completely motionless, fearful that any movement would merely draw the attention of his captors.  

 

Both his hands and feet were firmly bound by a thick rope, the cord digging painfully into his skin and making it impossible to find a comfortable position.  Not that he would have dared move anyway.  

 

After his capture, he had been bound, thrown roughly over an orc’s shoulder, carried for several hours, and at last tossed unceremoniously beneath this tree.  The orcs had set a single guard over him, and then for the most part ignored him.  Not that Pippin minded.  He much preferred being ignored to the alternative.  He was surprised that the orcs had not just killed him, and his mind quailed at the thought of what else they planned to do to him.

 

Unbidden, his mind went back to the last time he had been captured by a band of orcs.  The memory was not a very nice one, and Pippin did not look forward to repeating the experience.  Then, he had had his best friend Merry with him, and the two had found a way to escape.  Now, however, alone as he was, he doubted there would be any chance of that.  He wondered what Merry would say if his friend knew of his present predicament.  At last, he shook his head, for he knew exactly what Merry would say.  He would call Pippin five kinds of fool and then refuse to speak to him for a week.

 

_'Not that I wouldn't deserve it,'_ Pippin thought glumly. _'After all, Gandalf would say that I brought this all down upon my own head.  No one forced me to leave the city and follow Aragorn and Legolas.  I should have known that something like this would come of my foolish actions.  Now, I might not see any of them again.'_

This thought was almost too much for Pippin, and he quickly forced his mind to something different.  

 

For a time, he kept his thoughts busy trying to figure out why the orcs had merely captured him, and not killed him.  However, his mind kept imagining worse and worse possibilities until he had to force his thoughts away from this as well.

 

His thoughts kept turning to Aragorn and Legolas, and his concern grew for his two friends.  He had been attacked shortly after they had entered the cave.  Pippin reckoned it to have been at least four hours ago.  The company of orcs had caught him unaware, yet he had fought bravely, managing to kill several of them before his capture.  

 

Now, however, he was worried about what Aragorn and Legolas might do when they exited the cave and found him missing.  He hoped that they would assume he had headed back to Calambel, yet somehow he doubted it.  Given time to think, Pippin realized that this all looked a little too much like a well planned trap, and he hoped that he was not being used as the bait to capture Aragorn and Legolas.  That would explain why he was still alive.

 

Pippin shook his head angrily, trying to fight back tears of frustration.  If anything happened to Aragorn and Legolas because of him, Pippin would never forgive himself.

 

He sat huddled quietly for several more minutes, his mind on these things, when the orcs around him began to move restlessly, murmuring to each other in their foul tongue.  

 

Pippin shifted nervously, watching the orcs beginning to mill about, all of them facing away from where he sat.  He briefly entertained the thought of escape, but before he could make any plans, his orc guard reached down and yanked him to his feet by his bound hands.

 

_'It looks like we’re finally moving out,'_ Pippin thought resignedly.  Yet his guard remained motionless, gripping him tightly and staring in the same direction as his companions.  Pippin followed his gaze, realizing that something was moving through the trees toward the little party.  A desperate hope ran through him, and he watched the trees as intently as the others, wondering if his rescue was near at hand.

 

His hope faded, however, when one of the orcs in the party called out something and was immediately answered by a similar call from the forest.  Pippin watched with growing disappointment as a troop of orcs broke from the trees and began making their way toward the orcs that held him.

 

Suddenly, the hobbit stiffened, a cry of dismay falling from his lips, his eyes glued to the approaching party of orcs.  As they drew closer, it became obvious to Pippin that what he had seen was not a mistake, as he had dared to hope.  With this realization, his shoulders drooped and all hope abandoned him like the leaves abandon their trees come winter.  

 

His soft sob of despair was lost to the lonely night, completely drowned out by the orc's wild cheers of victory.


	19. Where There is Smoke...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Fellowship is reuniting, but may face a new threat that is hunting them all.

As Legolas’s mind slowly drifted toward consciousness, the first thing he became aware of was a horrible jarring and an intense pain radiating from his chest.  Instinctively he let out a low moan, attempting to shift away from the horrible pressure.  It did not take him long to realize that this was a very bad idea, as the movement only aggravated the pain, and he once more became limp and still.  His memory of his present predicament returned to him, and he had to fight back yet another moan.

 

He was being carried by an orc, thrown carelessly over the creature’s broad shoulder, the position not helping his injured side one bit.  The jarring sensation came from the orc’s rough steps, and when Legolas at last opened his eyes, it took several minutes for him to see anything but stars swimming across his vision.  Not that there was much to see except the ground and the back of the creature that held him.

 

His hands were tied roughly with a large rope, and though he had long since lost all feeling in his legs, he guessed that they were similarly bound as well.  His head pounded so fiercely that he half expected it to fall off at any moment, and he felt as if he was very near to being sick.  He had eaten nothing but a couple of small wafers of lembas since leaving the city, yet the pain of his injured body was too overwhelming to allow him to feel any real hunger.

 

He decided to ignore his physical pain as much as possible and set his mind to the task of thinking of some way to escape.  He knew the orcs were most likely carrying him back to their lair, back to Malek, and this thought alone was enough to send cold fingers of fear through him.  Once the orcs reached the cave he knew there would be little chance of escape, though if he was completely honest with himself, he knew there was little chance in any case.  He could not understand why Malek had not merely killed him when he had the chance, and he wondered what foul purpose the creature held in store for him.  His thoughts turned unbidden to his dreams, and he had to fight down a rising wave of panic.  He gritted his teeth, using all his self-control to keep from twisting and fighting in a futile attempt to escape.

 

As it was, Legolas could not suppress the shudder that ran through his slight frame, causing the orc holding him to tighten his grip painfully.

 

“Be still, elf,” the creature hissed, his voice full of menace and hate.  “Be still or I will drag you behind me by that pretty hair of yours.”

 

Legolas did not respond, knowing that offering any reply would not go well for him.  He would not be surprised if the orc followed through on his threat out of pure spite and hatred.  He closed his eyes, shutting off the dizzying sight of the ground passing beneath him and trying to force his body as limp and unmoving as possible.  Normally, he would have given the orc as much trouble as he could, disregarding any possible repercussions to himself.  Yet, he had the serious feeling that he would need all his strength for whatever was to come, and angering the orcs into beating or possibly killing him would be far from the wisest thing to do.

 

Legolas instead turned his thoughts to Aragorn, recalling the horror in his friend’s voice as the ranger called out to him the second before he had tumbled from the cliff edge.  He hoped that Aragorn had managed to find Pippin and escape from the mountains, returning to the city safely, bringing news and warning to those that had remained behind.  Legolas’s mind conjured up a picture of Gimli, standing upon the wall with arms crossed, berating him for being so careless as to allow himself to get caught.  He could almost hear his best friend now, the dwarf complaining loudly that he knew he should have come along, especially since Legolas did not know how to take care of himself properly and needed Gimli at his side to keep him from bumping into his own shadow.  The mental picture was so real in Legolas’s mind that he found himself smiling slightly, despite his situation.  If he lived through this, Gimli would surely kill him!

 

Legolas’s thoughts were interrupted by an orc’s shout echoing through the silent night, the sound coming from several paces ahead.  The first shout was answered by another, this one much nearer, and Legolas realized that the company of orcs that had captured him were joining with another group.  

 

He opened his eyes just in time to realize that he was being carried into a small clearing, before the orc that held him roughly tossed him to the ground.  Legolas barely managed to choke back a cry of pain, releasing a soft grunt as his battered body connected with the hard ground.

 

He rolled onto his good side, pulling his knees up in a fetal position in an attempt to ease the sharp pain in his ribs.  He glanced above him, his eyes widening slightly at the crowd of orcs that had gathered around him, their eyes filled with gloating triumph and malice as they stared down at him.

 

Legolas took a deep breath and returned their stares, showing no sign of the fear he felt, his look of calm defiance one that would have brought pride to the highest elven lord.  

 

*******

 

Pippin was still being held tightly by his orc guard, unable to do anything as the new orcs brought Legolas into camp and dumped the elf to the ground.  Pippin attempted to call out to his friend, yet his small voice was completely drowned out by the shouts of the orcs that had gathered around the fallen elf.

 

Pippin immediately began to struggle against his captor, trying desperately to reach his fallen comrade’s side, unsure of how he could help, yet determined to try.  His efforts gained him nothing but a rough slap from the orc who held him, the blow nearly knocking him to his knees despite the thick arms holding him upright.  He gasped in pain, blood beginning to flow from his nose and down his face.

 

He could do nothing but watch in horror and growing fear as the orcs converged around Legolas, laughing and calling out taunts to their victim.  One orc aimed a kick towards Legolas’s head, but the elf moved swiftly despite his obvious injuries, dodging the blow and causing the orc to stumble slightly, thrown off balance.  The creature’s companions laughed at the unfortunate brute, but Pippin found nothing funny about the situation, especially when the orc drew its dagger, face twisted with rage.

 

Once more, Pippin fought to break free, feeling sure that he was about to watch his friend’s death.   The orc that held him didn’t even seem to notice his efforts, the creature as intent upon the unfolding scene as Pippin was, his grip an unbreakable vice around the hobbit’s bound hands.

 

The orc with the dagger lunged forward, pinning Legolas to the ground with one heavy boot against the elf’s throat, the dagger raised and ready to strike home. 

 

“No!”  Pippin screamed, giving one last futile jerk, his eyes blurred with tears as he watched the dagger begin its downward journey.

 

Amazingly, it was another orc who came to Legolas’s rescue, stepping forward and catching the arm of his companion, stopping the blade from striking its target.  This orc looked to be a captain, for he was larger than the others, and he held himself with a commanding air that was rare among the goblin race.  He growled something low and menacing at the orc with a knife, wrenching the blade free and pushing the creature backwards.

 

“We take him alive,” the creature commanded, casting a glare around him.  “Those were my orders, and unless you wish to answer to the master, I suggest you obey them.”

 

This command was met by angry mutters from some of the orcs, and nods of agreement from others.  Pippin watched in apprehension as the orcs began to argue among themselves, their voices raised and angry as they began to yell back and forth in their dark tongue.  He was amazed when the orc holding him released him, leaving him to go and join in on the argument.  

 

Pippin’s surprise kept him immobile for only a second before he dropped to his knees and began crawling awkwardly toward where Legolas lay.  The orcs continued to argue above him, the situation looking as if it was drawing dangerously close to blows.  _‘Maybe they will all kill each other and leave Legolas and I alone_ ,’ Pippin thought wryly, barely avoiding being trampled by two of the fighting orcs.  

 

Legolas’s back was turned away from Pippin, the elf still surrounded by two or three large goblins that continued to argue directly over his prone form.  Pippin called out as quietly as he could, hoping to avoid drawing the orcs’ attention, while still somehow gaining Legolas’s.  Luck was with him, for at the sound of his soft call, Legolas glanced over his shoulder, his eyes showing his dismay at the sight of Pippin crawling towards him.  He started mouthing for Pippin to get away, to try and escape, but the hobbit only shook his head resolutely and continued forward, drawing nearer to the towering forms of the orcs that stood over Legolas.  His heart was beating so fast that he was surprised it didn’t pump its way right through his chest.  Every second that passed he expected an orc to turn and spot him, and then it would all be over.  Yet somehow, miraculously, the orcs continued to argue and shout, completely unaware as Pippin worked his way past them, at last reaching Legolas’s side.

 

He collapsed beside his friend, his breath coming out in short rasps that he could not control, despite his fear that their captors would hear it.  Legolas stared at him sadly, the elf’s face unusually pale except for the black stain of blood that ran down the left side of his face.  

 

“You should not be here,” Legolas whispered so softly that Pippin barely heard him.  “Escape while you can.  Go!”

 

Pippin once more shook his head emphatically, glancing around him for a sharp rock he could use to saw at the rope binding Legolas.  “Not without you,” he whispered, just as silently, if a bit more breathlessly, his eyes at last finding what he was looking for.  A pointed rock with a jagged edge lay only a few feet away, and Pippin began to crawl slowly in its direction.  Legolas watched him silently, his body completely still. Pippin’s small frame could move through the darkness without drawing much attention, yet Legolas knew that if he so much as twitched a muscle, the orcs would be upon him.

 

Pippin at last reached the rock, his hand going out to grip the small item.  He was just starting to draw it back towards him when a heavy boot landed on his arm, crushing the limb to the ground and causing him to loose his grip on the rock.  He let out a small yelp of pain, his eyes flying up to the orc towering above him.  The creature glared down at him, reaching and grabbing Pippin by his throat and lifting his small frame off the ground, holding him up before him like a rag doll.

 

“Trying to escape, little one?” the orc sneered, giving Pippin a hard shake.

 

Pippin couldn’t have answered if he had wanted to, the orc’s iron grip cutting off all air to his lungs.  He struggled vainly, his eyes wide and black dots beginning to cut off his vision.

 

The orc laughed, holding Pippin up for a few seconds longer before letting him drop to the ground.  Pippin gagged and choked, desperately pulling air into his starved lungs.  He was not given long to recover before the orc reached down once more and pulled him to his feet.  For the first time, Pippin became aware that the orcs had stopped arguing and seemed to be preparing to move on.  Legolas had been dragged to his feet as well, and the orcs were in the process of tying a short, thick rope to the bindings on his hands.  The elf swayed slightly on his feet, a fresh trickle of blood working its way from the corner of his mouth, and Pippin felt a pang of guilt that his actions had caused more torment to his friend.

 

The orc that held him also began tying a short rope to his bound hands, and Pippin realized that it was a sort of leash.  It appeared as if he and Legolas would be forced to walk wherever they were being taken.  He shot a worried glance toward his friend, thinking that Legolas barely looked able to stand, let alone walk.  

 

The orc cut the rope binding Pippin’s feet, then grabbed his chin, forcing his eyes upward to meet the creature’s cruel ones.  “You fall, little one, and I will drag you,” the orc growled threateningly, a moment before he swept the hobbit’s legs out from under him.   Pippin managed to roll to his side and push himself to his feet a bare second before the orc started away, laughing nastily as he yanked the hobbit after him. 

 

The orc company, along with their two captives, began marching up the trail, the orcs laughing and joking with each other as if the argument of a few moments before had never taken place.  Pippin struggled to keep up with his captor’s long strides as well as keep an eye on Legolas.  Despite his worries, the elf seemed to be keeping up just fine.  True, Legolas was lacking his usual gracefulness, and he was limping heavily, but he had yet to fall or even stumble.  This was more than Pippin could say for himself.  Between attempting to keep up and also watching Legolas, he had nearly fallen several times, tripping over unseen roots or stumbling over the uneven ground.  His orc guard, according to his word, had not slowed or even glanced behind him when Pippin stumbled, and it was only luck that he kept his feet and avoided being dragged.

 

The fourth time Pippin glanced behind him, Legolas met his eyes, shaking his head slightly and giving Pippin what was obviously supposed to be an encouraging ‘don’t worry I’m fine’ look.  Pippin didn’t buy into this one bit, yet the ground was beginning to slope more and more upward and the terrain was becoming more rugged, requiring all his attention to keep from falling.

 

Pippin soon lost track of all time, his thoughts focused on putting one foot in front of the other.  He was terribly tired and he realized that he had not slept properly in two days, and only a slightly shorter time since he had eaten properly.  He was starved, and his stomach kept rumbling with a loud demand for food, yet he realized that such a luxury was highly unlikely in his present position. He began stumbling more and more often, his eyelids beginning to drift shut of their own accord.  Only the sure promise of being dragged kept him from collapsing all together.  

 

Just when Pippin was sure that he could go no further, the ground sloped up sharply once more, leading up to the opening of the cave Pippin, Legolas, and Aragorn had scoped out only hours earlier.  Pippin sagged with relief that the journey was finally over, even as his mind baulked at the idea of entering the black hole of the cave.  His thoughts unavoidably turned to the missing member of their company.  He had wanted to ask Legolas about Aragorn, yet the one time he had attempted to speak to the elf, an orc had shouted at him to remain silent, delivering a rough cuff to the side of Pippin’s head along with the order.  

 

The tunnel entrance was guarded by two burly orcs who laughed and jeered when they saw the two prisoners.  Pippin winced inwardly when one of the new orcs reached out and shoved Legolas savagely, calling out a taunt in his rough language.  The elf stumbled back against the cave wall, using the hard stone to keep his balance and  keep upright.  Pippin started toward him, but the orc holding his bound hands yanked him forward, dragging him further down the dark tunnel.  Pippin attempted to look behind him, but the orcs had crowded close, blocking his view of Legolas.

 

The tunnel seemed to go on forever, winding and twisting passageways breaking off in all directions.  Blackness surrounded everything, and even the torches the orcs carried did little to push it back.  Pippin was careful to mark their route as well as he could, trying not to become too disoriented in the black maze.  For the most part, the orcs seemed to be following a straight path, turning neither left nor right.  

 

After several minutes of walking, the company broke from the tunnel into a large cavern, the ceiling of the cave rising abruptly to tower over their heads.  Pippin gaped in wonder; reminded of the large caverns the fellowship had passed through on their trip through Moria.  That memory was not a fond one, and Pippin doubted if this one would be either.

 

The cavern was huge, looking almost round in shape with a high ceiling and jagged walls.  Torches burned along these walls, casting dim light to all but one section of the large cave. Many other tunnel entrances opened into the cavern, giving the appearance of a giant beehive.  _‘A beehive full of orcs,’_ Pippin thought glumly, glancing around him.  The cavern was mostly deserted now, however it was quite obviously the camping ground for an army of orcs.  A large army of orcs. 

 

Pippin was shoved forward, half dragged and half carried to the center of the large cavern, where he was tossed to the ground.  The leash was removed from about his hands and his feet were once more bound tightly.  Legolas was shoved down next to him, and the same procedure was done with the elf.  Pippin felt a brief thrill as he realized that they were not going to be separated.  Hope flared within him once more.  Surely he and Legolas together could come up with a way out of this.

 

The orcs finished binding them; set two guards, then turned and left.  Pippin stared after them, amazed that they were being left alone with nothing more being done to them.  He turned and glanced at Legolas, the elf’s eyes mirroring his own surprise.  Pippin glanced at the two remaining orcs, then scooted closer to Legolas so that he could speak with the elf without being overheard.

 

“You all right?” he asked softly, still watching the two orcs who had their backs turned to them.

 

“Yes.  And you my small friend?” Legolas replied, just as softly.

 

“I suppose I am as well as can be expected, considering our present predicament,” Pippin answered.  Legolas smiled slightly at this, but did not answer.

 

“Where is Aragorn?” Pippin asked, his voice still soft but rushed.  He expected the orcs to turn around any minute and order them to be silent.

 

Legolas shook his head, his eyes troubled.  He raised his bound hands, wiping at the dried blood on his face.  “I do not know,” he answered truthfully.  “On the trail, the orcs were speaking of additional groups out looking for ‘the other one.’ I assume they were referring to Aragorn, which would mean that he is free, at least for the present.” 

 

“Good,” Pippin whispered.  “He can get the others and then come back and rescue us.”

 

Legolas glanced at him, a strange expression on his face, yet he only nodded.  The elf seemed extremely nervous and fidgety, continually glancing around him and swallowing hard.  Pippin knew that Legolas hated caves, and being forced in one under such conditions would be hard enough for anyone.

 

“What do you suppose Malek wants with us?” he asked, hoping to distract the elf from his discomfort.  He had asked the question automatically, but immediately winced when he realized what he had said.  He didn’t particularly wish to speak of what evil things Malek had in store for them.

 

“I expect we will learn soon enough when Malek and his orcs return,” Legolas replied softly, looking at Pippin as if reading his thoughts.  “It is as Aragorn said.  Malek is sporting with us and I suspect we are but another ‘move’ in his game.”

 

Pippin frowned.  “Do you think he will attempt to use us to get at the others?” he asked worriedly.

 

Legolas shrugged.  “Perhaps,” he replied. “Or he may be waiting until he has all of us before he kills us.”

 

Pippin winced and looked away, glancing toward the nearest tunnel entrance, which was easily over fifty yards away.  Escape would be no easy thing.  That was for sure.  Turning back, he found Legolas staring at him intently, an odd expression on the elf’s face.

 

“Pippin,” Legolas whispered, then stopped.  

 

Pippin looked at him expectantly, waiting for his friend to continue.

 

“When the orcs return, they may wish to have some sport.” Legolas’s voice was soft and matter of fact, his eyes saying much more than his words.

 

Pippin felt his stomach sink, a slow sick feeling stealing over him.  He knew of what Legolas was speaking.  Orcs hated elves, and would take any chance to torment them, as Pippin had already seen.  He swallowed hard, refusing to meet Legolas’s eyes, once more desperately searching for any avenue of escape.

 

“Pippin, you must listen to me,” Legolas spoke firmly, his voice still toned low, but with a note of urgent determination.

 

Pippin reluctantly turned to face him once more, not wanting to hear what the elf had to say, but knowing there was no getting out of it.

 

“When the orcs return, no matter what they may do, I do not want you to try and interfere.  Keep as still and quiet as possible and hopefully they will not bother you.”

 

Pippin stared at Legolas in complete disbelief.  “You want me to sit and watch while they…,” he trailed off, too overcome by horror to continue.  “You can’t be serious,” he finally blurted out, his voice louder than he intended.

 

“That is precisely what I want you to do,” Legolas answered firmly.  “It will be hard, but you must.  This has nothing to do with our friendship,” he continued, “but with common sense.  Elves heal swiftly and can endure much more than you may think.  If the orcs were to turn their attention upon you, little one, I do not think you would survive very long.”

 

Pippin stared at Legolas, his mind numbly realizing that his friend had just used the same name for him as the orc had earlier.  Coming from the orc it had been mocking, yet from Legolas it was somehow comforting.

 

Legolas was watching him closely, his eyes intense, a silent plea in them.  “I do not tell you this to scare you, Pippin, but to make you understand.  You must do this for me, my friend.”

 

_‘I thought this had nothing to do with our friendship,’_ Pippin thought numbly, though he did not say it out loud.  “Maybe they won’t do anything,” he offered lamely, refusing to meet Legolas’s eyes.

 

The elf smiled sadly, his eyes all too knowing.  “You must remain alert for an opportunity to escape.  If the orcs are busy with me, perhaps you will get a chance to slip away.  If so, you must not hesitate.  Do not worry about me.”

 

“That I will NOT do,” Pippin stated firmly.  “And don’t tell me it has nothing to do with our friendship either,” he added before Legolas could argue.  “We will escape together or not at all!” 

 

Legolas merely stared at him a moment, realizing that arguing would not change the hobbit’s mind.  He wondered if Pippin truly realized what he had just said, then finally decided he probably did.  The hobbit never ceased to surprise Legolas.  He gave Pippin a weak smile of gratitude, and was rewarded by a return smile. 

 

Silence fell over the two companions, each lost in thought.  Several minutes passed before Pippin once again turned to Legolas.

 

“Legolas,” he spoke softly, gaining the elf’s attention.  “I’m hungry.”

 

*******

 

Aragorn almost did not find the cave.  He stumbled upon it purely by accident, the opening mostly hidden by a large patch of scrub brush.  His discovery came not a moment too soon, for he was growing weaker with every passing second, the loss of blood making him lightheaded and drowsy.  

 

Luckily for Aragorn, the cave was just what he needed.  A small tunnel led to a slightly wider cavern, just high enough for him to recline against the far wall, his head barely brushing the roof of the cave.  Another tunnel led from the back of the cavern, offering an avenue of escape should the orcs manage to find his hiding place.  The cavern was positioned far enough from the entrance that only the barest sliver of moonlight invaded the darkness, yet close enough that he could hear anything approaching the cave.  

 

Aragorn was not particularly fond of being forced to sit and wait, yet he knew his body could go no further this night, and out in the open he would stand little chance, especially with orc patrols searching for him.  This cave provided him a hiding place where he could rest and tend his wound while he waited for the light of day.  Once the sun rose, the majority of the orcs would retire to their cave and he would have a better chance of escaping back to the city.  He could only hope that Calembel would be able to resist the attack of Malek and his orcs.  His mind didn’t even want to consider the possibility that they would not.

 

Aragorn let out a tired sigh and sagged back against the cool stone, allowing his body to relax slightly.  He closed his eyes, gritting his teeth against the pain of his mind and body.  He had managed to keep his emotions on a tight leash, yet now they threatened to break free and consume him once more.  He attempted to force his mind into a blank, but it was no use.  His grief and anguish could no longer be contained.  

 

_‘Failed.’_

 

The single word seemed to echo repeatedly through Aragorn’s mind, ripping at him and tearing him to pieces inside.  He had failed!  Even worse than the fact that he had failed, was the price of his failure.  Legolas had fallen, Pippin was missing, and Calembel was most likely fighting for survival at this very moment!  He had been completely unsuccessful in his mission to learn more of Malek and discover a way to destroy the creature, and he had failed to reach Legolas in time to save the elf.  He had even failed to discover the final fate of both his friends.  Everything had gone wrong, and Aragorn could not stop the feeling that he was responsible, that he should have done something to prevent it all from happening.  

 

His mind was full of visions of Legolas tumbling from the rock shelf, and he could not contain a soft sob of despair and anguish.  Several long minutes passed as Aragorn sat lost within his grief, the pain in his heart completely clouding the pain of his wound.  

 

It took a great effort for Aragorn to pull himself free of his depression and sorrow.  At last, he busied himself tending his wound as best he could in the cramped and dark confines of the cave.  He tore a strip of cloth from his cloak and used it to bind the cut on his side tightly, his actions automatic, his brain still clouded with emotions. When he had finished his task, he settled back against the wall once more, closing his eyes and sighing deeply.

 

He knew it was going to be a long night, even more so because he would have to keep himself awake and alert.  He would much prefer to sleep, for then he would not have to deal with all the feelings of grief and despair that continually battled for control over his mind.  Instead, he busied himself with thoughts of what he would do come morning.  His heart desired more than anything to return to the spot where he had lost Legolas, to finish what he had been unable to do during the night, yet he knew this area was likely to be guarded by orcs.  Continuing his search for Pippin was another option, yet he somehow doubted he would be able to discover any more than he had previously.  He could only hope that Pippin had managed to escape the orcs and work his way back to Calembel.  

 

‘Calembel.’  That was one of Aragorn’s greatest worries, for he knew not whether the city had been prepared well enough to withstand Malek’s attack.  He held complete trust in both Gandalf and Faramir, yet he still ached to be at their side, fighting with them.  He missed Arwen terribly, and mourned for the pain he would cause Gimli when he returned with news of Legolas’s fall.  He prayed desperately that Pippin had reached the city, for he had no desire to carry bad news to the hobbits as well, especially Merry.  He at last decided that the only path open to him was to return to the city.  From there, he could decide what to do next.

 

With this decision made, Aragorn allowed himself to relax a bit more, his mind still sharp and alert for any sounds disturbing the night.  His entire body ached and screamed at him to sleep; yet somehow he managed to remain awake until the first faint traces of morning light could be seen peering through the cave entrance.  

 

Aragorn waited until he was sure the sun had completely risen before he moved to exit his small hiding place.  He could hear the bright songs of birds filling the air, and he breathed deeply of the fresh air winding in through the tunnel.  His muscles screamed in protest at his every movement, and when he finally straightened after crawling out of the cave, his wound sent a shot of hot pain throughout his body.  His hand instinctively flew to his injured side, and he winced when he felt the heat radiating through the bandage from the wound. His tired body had not registered the unusual heat before, and Aragorn thought wryly that he should have expected this.  Orcs often tipped their arrows with poison, and he had been unable to clean and dress the cut properly.  

 

Now, there was no time to worry about bringing the fever down.  He was filled with an urgency to reach the city, and he could wait no longer.  He glanced to the rising sun, gaining his bearings before starting in a southerly direction, back toward the city.  He traveled slowly, his mind on constant alert, and his eyes scanning the path ahead.  He came across several tracks of orcs, yet no other signs of the creatures.

 

It took him well past midmorning before he at last broke free of the mountains, working his way through the last foothills that lay before the plain that ran up to the city.  His movements continued to be slow, but this time due more to his injury than any real alertness.  The fever had spread throughout his body, and Aragorn was struggling to keep his mind clear and his form moving forward.  

 

He was nearing the top of the final hill before the city, when he casually glanced upward, his body stumbling to a halt at what he saw.  He stood frozen for several minutes, his fevered mind taking time to register the sight before him.  When it finally did register, all color drained from his face, and he fell to his knees.

 

A large plume of black smoke was visible over the last rise, snaking its way slowly into the sky.  The dark cloud of smoke was still a fair distance away, its base still hidden by the hill, and yet Aragorn had no doubt of where it came from.  

 

“Calembel.”  The word came out in a horrified whisper, and he was unable to tear his eyes from the giant mushroom rising into the sky.  He suddenly no longer had the energy to even rise.  Calembel was burning, the smoke rising and disappearing into the bright sky, fading as surely as the last of his hopes.

 

Aragorn was not sure how long he remained kneeling upon the grassy knoll, his eyes locked on the heavy plume of smoke rising from the direction of Calembel.  His mind felt strangely disconnected from his body, and he could not force himself to rise.  The fever from his wound raged through him, leaving him feeling empty and weak, and a dark shadow was beginning to cloud his vision.  He was vaguely aware that his body was trembling uncontrollably, despite the raging heat that flowed through his veins.   
  
A part of Aragorn's mind that still functioned, not yet clouded by fever, urged him to rise and continue on.  He attempted twice to push himself to his feet, and twice he failed.  His sickness and despair had robbed him of all strength, and he at last allowed himself to sink back to the earth, surrendering to the great weariness encompassing him.   
  
Just as he neared unconsciousness, his head pillowed by the tall grass, he thought he saw several horsemen topping the hill directly before him.  He blinked heavily, thinking that his mind was somehow playing tricks with his eyes, and he once more gave a valiant effort to rise.  Yet it was no use, his body would be ignored no longer, and just as his mind slipped into darkness, he imagined he heard his name being called, the sound echoing with the pounding of hooves.


	20. Darkness and Light

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Fellowship is reuniting, but may face a new threat that is hunting them all.

Flames, bright and intense, rose toward the heavens with an angry roar, licking greedily ever higher and turning the sky black with smoke.  The air above the raging inferno seemed to shimmer and dance with heat, and a sickening stench filled the air.   

 

One hundred yards from the base of the bonfire, the city of Calembel lay quiet and subdued, the walls reflecting the light of the flames and giving off an eerie glow.  No sounds of bird’s cheerful singing filled the still morning, and even the sun seemed veiled and shadowed, though there was not a cloud in the sky.  The cold touch of death permeated the air, and an unnatural silence encompassed the land.

 

Faramir stood silent and still upon the field before the city, surrounded by a scene of death and destruction.  The fire raged before him, and the city lay behind, yet Faramir’s mind registered neither as it wept at the sight before him.  All about him, the land bore the horrible mark of the fierce and bloody battle that had raged here only hours before, and he thought sadly that the earth would never be rid of the dark stain that had settled upon it.  Bodies lay everywhere, both orc and human, sightless eyes starring unseeingly into the sky or turned forever downward to the earth from whence they came.  Soldiers wandered through the battlefield, pulling their fallen comrades free, unashamedly weeping at the loss of friends and companions and reverently carrying them back to the city with honor and respect.  Those soldiers who did not have the task of searching for fallen defenders, had the much more gruesome task of dealing with the dead orcs.

 

Faramir grimaced in disgust as two soldiers struggled past him with the body of a dead orc, stumbling with their burden as near to the fire as they could, before tossing the carcass into the hungry flames.  The fire welcomed the orc's body with a fresh belch of flame and black smoke, and the two soldiers hurried away, gagging and choking at the horrible stench of burning flesh.  The smell, mixed with the heavy smoke, was intense enough that all those working upon the field wore heavy pieces of cloth wrapped about their noses and mouths to block out the toxic fumes.  

 

Faramir also wore one of the cloth strips, yet standing so close to the fire he found it did little good, and his eyes were beginning to burn intensely from the black smoke.  He stood for a couple more minutes before turning away and slowly walking back toward the city, his eyes taking in the damage and automatically forming a long list of repairs and tasks that would need accomplishing this day.  Several sections of the city wall had partially collapsed from the force of the orcs attack, and many other sections were black and charred where the orcs had attempted to set fire to it.  The north gates hung crooked and broken upon their hinges, the heavy wood splintered and shattered, and several defenders worked swiftly to repair them as best they could.

 

Faramir shook his head, as he realized, not for the first time, exactly how close the city had come to falling to the orcs.  Only the bravery and determination of the defenders, as well as the timely arrival of Kenson Brantz and almost three hundred fresh soldiers, had kept the city from defeat.  The creatures had managed to break past the lines of defense upon the field, pushing the defenders back to the city walls.  Even then they had not relented, breaching the wall in several places including the gate, and entering the city.  Faramir had led the charge that had pushed them back, yet he knew that if the sun had risen only a few hours later than it had, it would have risen upon a defeated Calembel.  Yet luck, or perhaps fate, had been with them, and the defenders had prevailed long enough that the orcs had been driven back by the arrival of day. 

 

Even so, the cost was great for both sides.  The orcs had the advantage of numbers, and could take such losses without much thought; yet each new casualty to the defenders marked clearly just how desperate their situation was becoming.  The way things stood now, Faramir had little doubt that another orc attack would end it all.  Therefore, he had been extremely relieved upon receiving the message that the other half of the army of Gondor was only a few miles away, and would reach the city in a few hours.  Faramir knew that the soldiers’ arrival would be a great moral booster for the worn and weary defenders, as well as providing fresh and much needed assistance.  With the new help, he held hope that the city could stand long enough for a plan to be made to conquer Malek.  Without leadership to pull them together, the orcs would become confused and quarrelsome, making them easy to defeat.  Malek was the key to everything, the very reason Aragorn had decided to track the creature to his cave and attempt to learn more about him.

 

This line of thought was one that Faramir had been carefully avoiding all morning, fighting down worry over his missing companions and attempting to keep his mind focused upon the defense of the city.  When Aragorn, Legolas, and Pippin had failed to arrive at Calembel before nightfall the previous evening, Faramir had half expected to see Gimli, and Merry as well, march out the gates and begin an immediate search for them.  Only Gandalf’s calm words of caution and wisdom had held the dwarf and distraught hobbit at bay.  The wizard had argued that there could be several reasons to explain their companions delayed return, and he had urged them all to remain patient and focused.  

 

When the orcs had attacked, everything had been forgotten in the desperate battle for survival, but now that the battle was over, Faramir found himself once more overcome with feelings of worry and restlessness.  Less than two hours after dawn, Gandalf, Gimli, Merry, Sam, and six soldiers had set out on a search for the missing companions.  Gandalf had seemed strangely reluctant, yet whatever his reasons, he had kept them to himself.

 

Frodo, who had been injured during the battle, Faramir, and Arwen remained behind.  Faramir had longed to go, yet he knew he was needed within the city, all the more so because of Aragorn’s absence.  Arwen had also longed to accompany the search, and Faramir guessed that her decision to stay behind had been much more difficult than his own.  After the attack, the number of wounded had outnumbered those of the healers caring for them, and Arwen’s skills were desperately needed within the city.  So they had been left behind, trusting Gandalf and the others to do whatever possible to find Aragorn, Legolas, and Pippin.  Faramir desperately hoped that all their worry would end up being for nothing, and that Aragorn and the others would be just fine.  

 

Forcing his mind back to the city, Faramir busied himself for the next several hours helping reconstruct the fallen north gate.  Midmorning came and went without him really registering the passing of time.  He was just starting up the street, planning on visiting Arwen and Frodo, when loud shouts along the top of the wall alerted him that someone was coming.  He ran back down the street, reaching the wall and bounding up the nearest stairs, hoping to get a good view of whoever was approaching.  A young soldier met him at the top, pointing excitedly to the north were a group of horsemen were riding toward the city.

 

Faramir felt a thrill, as he realized that the group had to be Gandalf’s party, and the only reason they would be returning so soon was if they had found something.  The horsemen were still too distant for him to make out any distinct forms or numbers, yet the closer they came, the more certain he was.  He left the wall and hurried to the gate, squinting past the fire toward the approaching riders.  As they drew closer, he at last could make out the form of Gandalf in the lead, the wizard carefully supporting a limp figure in the saddle before him.  Faramir felt his heart lurch as he realized the figure was too tall for Pippin and not quite tall enough to be Legolas.  It took all his self-control to remain waiting at the city gate and not go racing out to meet the approaching riders.

 

It seemed like forever before Gandalf at last rode through the gates, pulling his horse to a stop and carefully dismounting with an unconscious Aragorn in his arms.  Faramir held the wizard's horse, his worried eyes scanning the pale face of his king for some sign as to what ailed the man.

 

"How is he?" he asked worriedly, reaching forward to offer Gandalf aid with his burden.

 

"He is alive for the moment, and that is all that matters," Gandalf replied shortly.  "He is running a high fever, and we must get him to Arwen."

 

Faramir nodded and quickly handed the reins of Gandalf's mount to a nearby soldier.  "What of Legolas and Pippin?" he asked worriedly, for he had already noticed the absence of the two.

 

Gandalf shook his head slightly, his eyes full of worry.  "He was alone and unconscious when we found him," he replied simply, and Faramir felt his heart sink at the words.  He glanced over his shoulder to where Gimli was being helped off a horse he was sharing with a soldier.  The dwarf's face was strained and weary, and he kept glancing over his shoulder the way they had just come, the top of his hand rubbing nervously over the haft of his axe.  Beside him, Merry looked dangerously close to tears.

 

"Where do you think they are?" Faramir asked softly, turning back to Gandalf.

 

Once more, the wizard merely shook his head.  "That is something I can only hope Aragorn can tell us once he wakes," the wizard replied, turning and quickly striding up the street toward the temporary house of healing.

 

******

 

Legolas knew the minute Malek entered the cavern.  A dark chill ran throughout his being, and it seemed as if the torches surrounding the cave flickered and dimmed.  A black evilness filled the room, settling down upon the two huddled prisoners like a dark blanket, seeping away all light and warmth.  Even the air seemed to become oppressive and suffocating.  Legolas had faced the evil that was Malek face to face, yet at that time, it had still been daylight, and he had been preoccupied with fighting for his life.  This time, lying bound and helpless deep within the closed confines of the cave, the evilness seemed much more palpable and intent, chilling his blood and freezing his heart.

 

Legolas kept careful control over his emotions, scanning the many cave entrances for some sign of Malek.  His eyes at last came to rest upon the far end of the cavern, the only place still completely shrouded in darkness, with no torches to add the slightest amount of light.  Legolas recognized the blackness of this section to be unnatural, for even his keen eyes could not penetrate it’s black folds, and he knew that it was within this shadow that Malek stood, watching him.

 

Beside him, Pippin began to shift restlessly, fearful eyes darting around the cave, and Legolas knew that the hobbit felt Malek’s presence as well.  Pippin glanced up, meeting Legolas’s gaze and opening his mouth to speak; yet no words came out, for suddenly orcs began to pour into the cave, appearing from several different entrances and filling the cave with their loud and vulgar language.  The orcs arrival startled Legolas nearly as badly as Pippin, and he cursed himself for not sensing their coming long before.  It seemed that Malek’s presence was serving to cloud his already dulled senses even further.  

 

As the orcs continued to fill the cave, Legolas had to clench his jaw tightly and fight to remain calm against the tight knot forming in his stomach.  He knew he could not allow the orcs to see his fear, for the creatures enjoyed nothing more than causing such fear and pain in their victims.  He was determined not to give them the satisfaction.  He had to remain calm and in control no matter what torment they had in store for him, for nothing else would be acceptable for the proud prince of Mirkwood.  His mind kept recalling all the stories he had heard of elves captured by orcs.  None of the stories had been pretty, and none of them had ended happily.

 

Legolas forced his mind away from such thoughts, focusing instead upon the frightened hobbit at his side.  Pippin was yet another reason he had to remain calm.  The hobbit was once more shifting nervously, his eyes wide and terrified, looking as if he was considering bolting, bound limbs or no.  Legolas gently placed his tied hands upon his small friend’s shoulder, squeezing softly.

 

“Be still,” he ordered quietly, surprised at the level of complete calm and command he heard in his voice.  He most definitely did not _feel_ calm.

 

Pippin looked up at him, surprise evident in his young face.  Slowly, Legolas felt him begin to relax beneath his hands, the hobbit’s face still frightened, yet losing the wild look that had been there before. 

 

“Remember what I said earlier,” Legolas whispered, his voice still surprisingly calm.  “Do nothing to draw attention to yourself, no matter what happens.”

 

Pippin shook his head, his eyes tormented.  “Legolas, I still do not think I will be able to…”

 

“But you must,” Legolas cut him off mid-sentence.  “Think of Merry if you have to.  Think of the pain it would cause him to loose you.”  

 

Pippin let out a small gasp, his eyes widening, and Legolas felt a pang of guilt at the cruel words.  Yet at the moment, he was willing to try anything to get Pippin to understand.  

 

Pippin stared up at him silently for a few seconds, his eyes showing his hurt, yet at last he replied, “And what of Gimli?  What of the hurt he would feel?”

 

Legolas flinched slightly, but quickly recovered.  “If Gimli were here, he would tell you to remain still as well,” he answered softly.

 

“Maybe, but he himself would not,” Pippin retorted.

 

Before Legolas could even think of a response, the first of the orcs spotted them and let out a high yell, rushing forward and calling to their companions who were still entering the cavern.  In no time, the two prisoners were completely surrounded by a horde of orcs calling out for their blood. Legolas was glad that Pippin did not know the creatures foul language and thus could not understand the ugly threats directed toward them.  Even so, he glanced down at the hobbit worriedly and was surprised to see Pippin sitting up straight, his chin raised and glaring back at the orcs with resolve filling his small face.  Legolas felt a thrill of pride at the hobbit’s action, and he squeezed Pippin’s shoulder tightly one last time before dropping his hands back into his lap.

 

The orcs kept edging closer and closer, their faces filled with blood lust, and Legolas doubted that anything could keep them at bay.  He stared up at them bravely, his face defiant, and tensed his body for what he knew was about to come.

 

Suddenly, a chill so intense it rocked his body swept through him, and the orcs halted their advance, their voices dying away into complete silence.  The front row of orcs shifted and moved aside, revealing an approaching Malek, the creature looking much more terrible than before in the blackness of the cave. Legolas heard a strangled sound coming from beside him, yet he could not tear his eyes from the creature before him.

 

“Welcome,” Malek hissed, the sound coming out more like a hideous laugh.  “I have been waiting a long time for this moment.”

 

Legolas stared up at the creature, his features calm and expressionless.

 

Malek cocked his head, his grin widening.  “My pets are calling for your blood,” he continued, his voice gleeful.  “They have worked hard, and perhaps I shall give you to them.  They know how to have fun, and it shall be an enjoyment to watch them.  I am curious what it will take to make an elf scream.”

 

When Legolas merely continued to watch him, his face cold and unreadable, Malek’s features darkened.  “Of course, if you should bow before me and beg for your life, perhaps I shall spare you from their hands,” he growled, his eyes narrowing.

 

For the first time, Legolas showed a reaction, but it was not one Malek was expecting.  The elf let out a short laugh, looking up at Malek with disgust and contempt and already shaking his head.  

 

“I would never bow to you, creature of the dark,” Legolas spat with disdain, his light eyes flashing.  “Nor would I beg mercy from a bunch of orcs,” he added, filling the last word with as much derision and contempt as he could muster.

 

An angry mutter went through the surrounding creatures, yet Legolas was not finished.  He knew that his words were bold and rash, yet if they managed to draw all of Malek’s and the orcs attention and anger to himself, then perhaps Pippin would be ignored.  “Do with me as you please, Malek,” he continued, his voice now filled with taunting.  “You may even have your orcs kill me, but do not think you will have the pleasure of seeing me broken.  No matter what you may do, light will always triumph over darkness, and you cannot change that.  You _will_ be defeated, Malek, just as all dark things are defeated.  You _will_ fall!”  His speech given, Legolas fell silent, staring up at Malek with cold defiance.  

 

The silence in the cave was deafening.

 

Malek looked down at him, a hideous rage burning in his dark eyes.  At last he spoke, advancing a single step, his voice cold and dangerous.  “You think so, elf?” he hissed, his voice a mere whisper.  “You think I shall be defeated?  Darkness can extinguish light, as I will soon teach you.  I will show you exactly what it means to be a ‘creature of darkness.”

The words were spoken coldly and with a definite promise, and Legolas could not stop the wave of terror that swept through him at the dark meaning of the threat.  Legolas’s face must have given away a hint of his fear, for Malek suddenly laughed.

“No, my pet,” he spoke slowly, his voice now filled with condescension.  “I shall not kill you, though you will wish you were dead before I am through.  I have a much better plan for you.  But first, I must keep my promise to your friend.”  Malek motioned a large orc over to him, the creature perhaps one of the largest of the breed Legolas had ever seen.  “I would see the elf suffer,” he ordered the orc coldly.  “I would see him bleed.”  At this last sentence, Malek licked his lips, looking at Legolas hungrily.  

 

These words were met with a mutter of anticipation from the surrounding orcs, as the large creature bowed before Malek, pulling free a wicked looking whip from its belt.  Legolas thought that such an instrument was a strange tool for an orc, but he was given no time to think over this.  Two of the creatures stepped forward and roughly grabbed his shoulders, brutally shoving him face forward to the ground, a heavy boot landing on the back of his neck and pinning him down.  He gasped in pain as his bound hands dug into his chest, making it hard to breath.

 

“I have heard that elves are extremely resilient,” Malek spoke once more.  “I hope this is true, for it will make this so much more fun.”

 

Legolas’s cloak was torn from him and tossed carelessly away as his tunic was ripped open, exposing the soft flesh of his back and shoulders.  He heard a soft cry from Pippin, and he closed his eyes, praying fervently that the hobbit would do nothing to earn a share in the fate awaiting him.  His entire body was tense, waiting for the first fall of the whip, as the orcs screams and jeers filled his ears.

 

He heard the loud crack before he felt the pain, and he could not stop the gasp that escaped his lips.  The orc wielding the whip was obviously no stranger to the tool, for he administered the beating with a cold proficiency, waiting several seconds between blows to allow Legolas to experience the full pain of each terrible lash.  Legolas bit his lip hard, his eyes squeezed shut, fighting against the cries of pain that were becoming harder and harder to choke back as the whip repeatedly bit deeply into his flesh. 

 

Pippin stood a few feet away, tears burning his eyes and running tracks down his face, an orc’s rough hand gripping his shoulder and holding him in place.  He flinched heavily at each new blow that landed upon his friend’s back and shoulders, each lash opening up new ribbons of crimson that flowed from torn flesh.  Each time the whip fell, the orcs screamed with pleasure, yet Legolas did not cry out once, and Pippin wept harder at the courage and determination of his friend in the face of such brutality.

 

The beating seemed to go on forever, and Pippin watched helplessly as Legolas’s back became a ruined mass of torn flesh and blood.  He couldn’t see how anyone could survive such a beating, and each time Legolas’s body jerked from a blow, Pippin breathed a sigh of relief that the elf still lived.  Pippin was unsure how many minutes passed before Malek at last raised his arm and signaled an end to the violence.  Pippin let out a relieved sigh, thinking that Legolas would at last be left alone.  He was terribly wrong.

 

The same two orcs who had forced Legolas to the ground now roughly shoved him onto his back, facing upward into the jeering face of his captors.  A small trickle of blood flowed from the side of his mouth from where he had bitten through his lip, and his eyes were clouded and dark with pain.  The cold stone against his burning flesh actually helped clear his mind a little, bringing him back from the edge of unconsciousness.  It would have been better if it hadn’t, if he had just allowed the blackness to take him right then.  As it was, Malek had a much more terrible darkness in store for him.

 

Legolas watched through blurred vision as Malek knelt over him, reaching down and almost gently caressing his face, wiping the blood from the corner of his mouth.  Then, slowly, the creature raised his hand to his lips, licking the blood from his fingers and rolling his eyes in pleasure.  Legolas felt as if he was going to be violently sick.

 

Malek’s eyes locked with Legolas’s own, and the elf felt the ice prison close firmly about him once more.  Only this time, he did not have the energy or strength to fight it.  Malek continued to stare at him long enough to make sure Legolas was securely entrapped, then reached down and ripped the remainder of Legolas’s tunic away from his chest.  Cruelly inserting the tip of one sharp claw into Legolas’s chest, just above his sternum and just deep enough to draw a tiny pinprick of blood, Malek began to move his finger, carving an ugly groove into the elf prince’s flesh.  As he worked, he spoke softly and intently in a foul language, the small sound seemingly filling the large cavern and further dimming the light of the torches while deepening the shadows.

 

Pippin watched in horrified fascination, completely unaware that the orc behind him had released him.  Malek’s slow chanting reminded the hobbit of Gandalf preparing for a spell, and he wondered distantly what sort of dark curse the creature was placing upon Legolas.

 

As for Legolas, he found himself suddenly encompassed by a cold more intense than anything he had ever experienced.  Blackness, darker than anything he could have ever imagined seemed to be stealing over him, pressing in upon his very inner being and slowly engulfing him particle by particle.  He finally found the strength to fight, yet it was no use.  Just as it had been in his dreams, cruel hands held him to the ground and laughter assaulted his ears.  Yet even the laughter could not drown out the soft words being spoken above him, their meaning lost, yet their purpose clear.  It was the words, and the painful pressure upon his chest that aided the cold and dark takeover of his body, and there was nothing he could do to stop it.

 

Desperately, Legolas attempted to recall light and warmth, before all memories of these things were torn from him.  He tried to picture Mirkwood, his home, the trees dancing in the afternoon light and a warm breeze lightly playing with his hair.  Yet even as the memory came to him, it seemed to warp and distort itself, the trees turning black and dead, the air colder than winter.  Each memory he attempted to wrap around himself for protection was thus torn from him and polluted, until he could not even recall what light looked like, or what it felt like to be warm.  The coldness and darkness wrapped itself around his soul, seeming to become a very part of him and slowly squeezing all life from him. With the final takeover of his body, Legolas could at last no longer keep back the horrible scream of pain and despair.

 

It was Legolas’s cry, filled with ultimate agony and loss that finally jerked Pippin back to his senses.  Without thinking, without even truly realizing what he was doing, Pippin lunged forward, straight toward Malek.  His body collided roughly with the dark creature, and both of them stumbled back, falling to the hard floor.  

 

Time seemed to stand still as the orcs fell silent, completely frozen in shock.  Almost automatically, the nearest orc reached down and grabbed Pippin by the back of the neck, hauling him up and shaking him roughly.  Malek leapt to his feet, his eyes burning with rage, and Pippin thought for sure he was dead.  

 

Malek glared at the hobbit for a second before turning back to finish his task with the elf.  But it was too late, Legolas was unconscious, his head fallen limply to the side and his breath coming out in short rasps.  Malek turned back to Pippin, seriously considering killing the hobbit for disturbing him before he had finished his task.  He struck out, his sharp claws slicing four deep grooves down the side of Pippin’s face.  He smiled in satisfaction at the small cry that came from the hobbit.

 

Pippin kept his eyes tightly shut, waiting for the killing blow he was sure was coming.  He was surprised when the orc holding him suddenly dropped him, and he opened his eyes just in time to see Malek striding away and the orcs slowly dispersing.  His bound hands flew to his bleeding face, feeling how close one of the jagged cuts had come to his eye.  He grimaced in pain, the salt from his tears burning into the deep scratches.  

 

Slowly, Pippin dragged himself across the hard stone to Legolas’s side.  He wept at the bloody scratches that covered his friend’s chest, and his fear grew as he felt how cold Legolas’s body had become.  Gently he leaned over the elf, trying to share his own body heat without aggravating Legolas’s injuries.  He could not stop the flow of tears caused by fear and pain, and several drops fell to land upon the still and pale form of Legolas.

 

******

 

Arwen carefully removed the wet cloth from the basin, wringing it dry and placing it gently across Aragorn’s brow.  After several hours of continuous care, his fever was at last diminishing, although Arwen thought him still far too warm for comfort.  When Gandalf had first brought him in, she had been fearful for his life, yet now he seemed to be slowly recovering, though he had yet to wake.

 

Arwen gently brushed a stray strand of dark hair from his forehead, before leaning down and kissing him lightly.  When she once more straightened, her sharp senses alerted her of the arrival of several more people to the small room where Aragorn lay.  She turned as Gandalf, followed closely by Gimli, Faramir, Merry, Sam, and a slightly limping Frodo, entered the room.  All of them crowded closely around the bed, peering worriedly down at Aragorn.

 

“Has he stirred yet?” Gandalf asked, reaching forward and laying a hand against Aragorn’s cheek.

 

Arwen shook her head.  “Not yet,” she replied, “He is still recovering from the poison in his body, and he needs rest.  It may be several more hours before he awakens.”

 

“We do not have several hours,” Gandalf responded wearily, shaking his head slowly.  “Can he be roused?”

 

Arwen frowned, not liking the idea, but before she could speak, Gandalf continued.  “We must find out the fate of Legolas and Pippin, and I am afraid that time is quickly running out.”  Gandalf’s dark eyes locked with her own.  “I would not even suggest it, daughter of Elrond, if the situation was not so dire.”

 

Arwen’s gaze darted quickly towards Gimli and Merry and she at last let out a small sigh.  “He still runs a fever, and his mind may not be clear,” she warned as she turned back to the bed, leaning over Aragorn and shaking his shoulders gently.

 

Gandalf merely nodded, accepting her warning but seeing no other choice and thus willing to take the chance.

 

“Aragorn,” Arwen called softly, continuing to shake him lightly.  “Aragorn, you must wake.  Come, my love, for we have many question we would ask you.”

 

It took several minutes of shaking and begging before Aragorn shifted and moaned, seeming to at last approach consciousness.  When his eyes fluttered open, he blinked them several times, obviously having trouble focusing upon the group of faces peering worriedly down at him.

 

“Welcome back to the world of the living, my friend,” Gandalf greeted him softly, reaching forward and gripping Aragorn’s arm.  The ex-ranger blinked up at him, then immediately began to struggle into a sitting position.  Faramir and Gandalf aided him, supporting him while Arwen placed several large pillows behind his back.

 

When he was at last settled, he glanced once more at the faces surrounding him, frowning slightly.  “What happened,” he asked in a whisper, his voice hoarse and raspy.

 

“That was something we were hoping _you_ could tell _us,_ ” Gandalf responded lightly, taking a proffered cup of water from Arwen and holding it to Aragorn’s lips.  “Have you no memory of how you came to be here?” he asked, as the man drank thirstily from the cup.

 

Aragorn finished drinking and then sank back into the pillows with a tired sigh.  Gandalf repeated his question, but Aragorn only shook his head.  “I can’t seem to think very well at the moment,” he explained wearily, his eyes already beginning to drift shut.  “Perhaps if I sleep…”

 

Gimli had had enough.  All morning he had begged to go in search of Legolas and Pippin, and each time Gandalf had urged him to be patient and wait for Aragorn to wake.  The wizard had insisted that Aragorn would be able to give them valuable information that would aid in any search.  So, despite the waves of worry and misgivings, Gimli had waited, and now he was not about to let Aragorn go back to sleep without giving some answers.

 

Elbowing past Faramir, the dwarf reached forward and seized Aragorn by his shoulders, giving him a firm shake to get his attention.  “You cannot sleep now, Aragorn,” he ordered sternly, forcing the man’s clouded eyes to meet his own.  “We must know what has happened to Pippin and Legolas.  They left here with you yesterday morning, but you returned alone.  Where are they, and what has happened?”

 

“Easy Gimli,” Gandalf warned, “We cannot rush him.”

 

Gimli merely grunted, turning back to Aragorn with the purpose of pressing him further, yet he stopped at what he saw.  Aragorn was sitting bolt upright, his face pale and his eyes distant.  It was obvious that he was seeing something the rest of them couldn’t, and they could only hope that his memory was returning.

 

After several minutes of silence, Gimli reached out and gripped Aragorn’s shoulder once more, gently calling the ex-ranger’s name.  Aragorn did not respond or even blink at Gimli’s call, and the dwarf exchanged a worried look with Gandalf.  Gimli was opening his mouth to repeat the call, when Aragorn spoke.

 

“We…,” the ranger started, swallowing hard before continuing.  “We lost Pippin.”

 

Merry let out a soft cry at this statement, but Gandalf merely reached forward and gripped Aragorn’s arm.  “What do you mean you lost him?” he asked quietly, trying to get the man to look at him.

 

Aragorn continued to stare straight ahead, and Gandalf was not sure he had even heard the question.  “He disappeared,” Aragorn continued, his voice slow and uncertain, almost as if he were relating the information even as he first recalled it.  “Legolas and I hoped he had come back here, but we also feared he had been captured by orcs.”

 

Merry began to shake his head wildly at this idea, tears streaming down his face, yet Aragorn seemed unaware even of this as he slowly continued his story.

 

“Legolas and I split up,” he said softly, frowning intently as if trying to remember exactly what happened next.  “And then…”

 

Suddenly, Aragorn stopped, his face going even paler and his eyes flying to Gimli.  The dwarf actually took a step back at the intensity within Aragorn’s eyes, and he felt a cold dread steal over him.

 

“I’m sorry, Gimli,” Aragorn whispered, his eyes still glued to the dwarf.  “I’m so sorry.”  

 

Silence descended upon the room, and as Gimli’s eyes locked with Aragorn’s, it seemed as if the two were suddenly alone, the presence of the others fading into a blurry background.  Gimli shook his head slowly, desperately wishing he could plug his ears and block out what he knew would be coming next, yet his entire body seemed frozen as his dread turned into ice cold fear.

 

“I tried to reach him in time,” Aragorn continued, still in a whisper, his agonized eyes fixed on Gimli.  “I tried, but I was too late.  Too late.  I’m so sorry, my friend.”

 

The silence in the room seemed to grow into something palpable, something evil, intent upon destruction, and Gimli could only stare at Aragorn, his body completely numb with disbelief.  Ages seemed to pass before Gandalf finally spoke, somehow breaking the dangerous tension that filled the air.

 

“I think you should start at the beginning.”


	21. The Weight of Duty

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Fellowship is reuniting, but may face a new threat that is hunting them all.

A cool breeze swept across the land, bringing with it the fresh and brisk scent of approaching autumn.  The late afternoon sun shone brightly, tipping the high peaks of the Ered Nimrais with golden light and causing shadows to dance and shift upon the lower foothills of the mountain.  High, wispy clouds drifted across the bright blue sky, and the cheerful sound of birdsong filled the air.  

This wonderful display of nature went for the most part unnoticed by the inhabitants of the besieged city of Calembel.  Instead, soldiers raced up and down the city streets or out onto the short plain leading up to Calembel’s high walls, doing what they could to prepare for the coming night’s battle.  The large fire before the city had lost most of its ferocity and was beginning to die down considerably, though it still emitted plumes of foul black smoke.  A loud buzz of activity filled the air and the city was alive with movement.

However, there was at least one spot, deep within the heart of Calembel, where the noise did not penetrate and little movement could be seen.  Instead, silence hung heavy in the small room where Aragorn had been taken after being brought back to the city.  The king had finished relating his tale, and as all those within the room digested what they had just learned, each face showed a different reaction.

Aragorn looked drained and exhausted, his face pale and his eyes sad, his hands balled into fists that gripped the blankets upon his bed.   His eyes kept drifting from face to face, as if attempting to gauge the reactions of the others to what he had just told them.  

Above him, Gandalf stood with a worried frown, his shoulders slightly bent as if a great weight had settled upon him, his brow wrinkled with thought.  Next to the wizard, Faramir looked sorrowful and sympathetic, as he too, glanced around the room.  

Arwen stood near Aragorn’s bed, one hand resting upon his shoulder, her face hard to read as a series of expressions flashed across her smooth features.  Her eyes were bright with unshed tears, and the hand upon Aragorn’s shoulder trembled slightly.

All three of the hobbits stood in shock and dismay, their faces showing their disbelief and grief. Merry looked as if he was desperately trying to wake from a bad nightmare, shaking his head slowly as if he could shake away the horrible news he had just received.  He was as white as a ghost, and a silent flow of tears ran down his face.  

Sam had a hand upon the distraught Brandybuck’s back, and he looked as if he was struggling against his own tears.  Frodo wore a distant and bleak expression, one that he had worn during much of the last leg of his journey through Mordor little more than a year ago.

Yet perhaps most surprising of all, was Gimli’s reaction.  The dwarf’s face was completely expressionless.  His body remained totally motionless, not a twitch or blink of an eye revealing the inner turmoil that raged through him.  His eyes stared straight forward and one hand gripped the haft of his axe so tightly that his knuckles turned white.  Despite their own shock and grief, all those in the room watched him closely, waiting for what would happen next.

Gimli felt as if he was in a dream, a nightmare, in which he could not escape.  Despite his outward tranquility, inwardly he was a wreck.  His tattered thoughts and emotions fluttered through him like the elusive flecks of light that used to dance and shimmer on the hard stone floor in his favorite cavern within the Lonely Mountain.  When he was a child, he had chased and attempted to catch the tiny pinpricks of light, just as he now attempted to catch and hold on to a single thought in the flood that raged through him.

Aragorn’s words kept echoing over and over within his brain; ‘ _I’m sorry Gimli, I was too late.  Too late.’_   He was not angry with Aragorn.  His mind was too numb to feel anger, too numb to feel much of anything except confused disbelief.  Besides, he knew that the ex-ranger had done everything he could for Legolas.

_‘Why do I feel this way?’_ his mind kept questioning him.  _‘Why do I feel so empty and lost?   Until a year ago, I did not even like elves.  Why does the loss of one now so affect me?_   

He knew the answers, knew them as clearly as he knew his own face.  It was true, until recently he had not cared one whit about the elves.  He had thought them all too arrogant and proud, thinking themselves better than his own people.  Gimli had not even liked Legolas at first, containing a strong distrust and suspicion of him when the elf had been chosen to accompany them on the quest to destroy Sauron’s ring of power.  Yet that had all changed, and the truth of the fact was, Legolas was different.  Different than all the other elves Gimli had ever known, or thought he had known.  It hadn’t taken Gimli long to see this difference, and his own curiosity toward Legolas had been the first step toward bridging the gap between the two races.  

Gimli was not sure how it had happened, yet he and Legolas had formed a strong bond of friendship that even the long feud between their two races could not break.  Legolas had given so much to Gimli, been so much a part of his life, and now that he was gone an empty void seemed to fill the dwarf.  He could not seem to bring himself to accept the fact that Legolas was dead.  Aragorn’s story had been anything but conclusive on this point, and Gimli soon realized that he would not, could not, believe it until he was given proof.  From the moment Legolas, Pippin, and Aragorn had failed to show up the previous evening, Gimli had expected and dreaded the worst.  Now that the worst seemed to have truly come to pass, he refused to believe it, convincing himself that Aragorn had somehow made a mistake.  

_‘Legolas would not dare die without permission from me, for he knows I would kill him!’_ Completely ignoring the irrationality of the thought, Gimli at last raised his head and looked squarely at Gandalf, determination shining in his dark eyes.

“We have to go after them,” he stated firmly, breaking the blanket of silence that had covered the room.  His voice was perhaps more low and rough with emotion than he would have liked, yet the resolve in it was unmistakable.

Gandalf stared back at him, his bushy eyebrows rising slightly.  “Them?” he asked quietly, his voice gently questioning.

“Yes, _them._ ” Gimli replied rather forcefully.  “I do not believe Legolas to be dead, nor shall I until I have proof.”  He continued to stare at Gandalf, ignoring the small murmur that swept through the room at his announcement.  He knew what the others were thinking, and he found he could not really blame them.  Surely they thought he was merely denying the truth because it was too painful, and perhaps he was; yet he could not bring himself to care.  He was filled with a new determination, and he would not allow his thoughts or reason to interfere, for he feared the conclusions they would bring to him.

“We all heard Aragorn’s story,” he continued, “and you must all agree that there is no way to know for sure the fate of either Legolas or Pippin.  I myself, have found elves to be very hardy, and I believe he could have survived a fall such as Aragorn describes.  I shall not give up on him until I learn the truth, one way or the other,” he repeated firmly, turning to look into the eyes of each member in the room one by one.  He had been right, for each face shone clearly with a sad sort of pity.  However, Gimli refused to allow himself to see their sympathetic looks.

“And what if he did survive, Gimli?” Gandalf questioned softly, his voice no more than a whisper.  “What do you suppose has become of him now, for surely Malek and his orcs would not allow him to go free?  If he is not dead, then surely he is captured, and what do you suppose that means for him?”

The wizard’s question stabbed into Gimli like a knife, causing him to wince inwardly, though he showed no reaction outwardly.  “All the more reason why we must go and search for him, and immediately,” he retorted, his voice slightly angry and desperate.  “If he is captured, then we shall rescue him, along with Pippin!”

Gandalf gave a sad shake of his head, a small sigh escaping his lips.  “And you would go immediately?” he questioned, “With night fast approaching and the enemy on his way?”

“You would have me wait?” Gimli replied hotly, realizing that he was taking out his frustration and anger upon an undeserving source, and yet unable to stop.  “Every minute that is spent wasted in not looking for them is another minute that we leave Legolas and Pippin to suffer at the hands of our enemy!  I will _not_ allow this!”  Gimli distantly realized that his voice was nearing a shout.

“Suppose we do go and search?” Gandalf responded, his voice still completely calm.  “Suppose even that we find Legolas and Pippin and rescue them from the orcs, and then return to find the city fallen, destroyed by Malek?”

Gimli opened his mouth, and then realized he had no response.

Gandalf continued.  “I understand your wish to begin an immediate search, my friend.  Yet we hold responsibilities that go beyond that of our missing comrades, no matter how we mourn their loss.  We are responsible for each and every soldier within this city, and I will not allow them to face Malek and his army alone.”

“Then _I_ shall go alone,” Gimli stated, his voice ringing with desperation.  “Or with any that would choose to accompany me!”  At the foot of the bed, Merry shifted slightly, his expression desperately hopeful.  

“We have already attempted this,” Gandalf explained slowly, his voice holding the first hint of frustration, “and look what became of that.  If we separate again, we shall be playing directly into Malek’s hands.  It is too big a risk.

When Gimli opened his mouth to argue once more, Gandalf quickly forged ahead, effectively cutting off the dwarf’s protests.  “Peace, son of Gloin.  I do not ask that you give up hope for either Legolas or Pippin, nor do I ask that you not search for them.  I merely ask that you wait until morning.  Help us tonight, and come dawn, if we still live, we shall all go and aid in the search.  I merely ask you to be patient.”

Gimli gritted his teeth, attempting to come up with any argument against Gandalf’s request, yet Aragorn suddenly reached out and gripped his forearm, speaking up for the first time.

“Please, Gimli.  Think of what Legolas would have you do.  I, too, yearn to go and search, and yet the city needs us.”

Gimli stared down into Aragorn’s pleading eyes and had to fight down a tidal wave of emotions that threatened to overcome him.  He swallowed hard several times, dropping his eyes so the others would not see his face.  

Several minutes of silence passed before he raised his head, his expression once more stony and unreadable.  “Very well,” he whispered hoarsely, his voice gruff and filled with the emotion absent from his face.  “I will wait.  However, come morning, I shall begin my search, whether I be alone or with companionship.”

With this final statement, he gently pulled from Aragorn’s grasp and strode from the room, praying that his decision would not come back to haunt him later.

 

*******

 

After the door shut firmly behind Gimli, silence once more filled the small room, and it was Sam who finally broke it.

“I almost feel sorry for any orc who attempts to attack him tonight,” the hobbit whispered softly as he stared at the closed door through which Gimli had just exited.

The others stared at him incredulously, and Sam shrugged uncomfortably under their scrutiny.  

“I don’t,” Merry replied forcefully, his short frame straightening to its full height, his hand reaching to grip the hilt of the short sword he wore at his side.  “I hope he destroys them all,” he stated angrily, “and I shall help.”

Gandalf and Aragorn exchanged sad looks, and it was Sam and Frodo’s turn to stare at Merry in surprise.  Merry looked completely unaware of the scrutiny of his friends, his eyes hard and his hand caressing his sword hilt.

“There is still much to do,” Faramir said lightly, when the silence in the room once more became too much to bear.  He rose and bowed gracefully to Aragorn.  “With your leave, my lord, the other half of the army has arrived and needs to be positioned for tonight’s battle.”

“Of course,” Aragorn responded, his eyes still on Merry and his voice sounding slightly distracted.  Faramir walked to the door and opened it before Aragorn called out to him.  The steward turned with a questioning look, and Aragorn gave him a sheepish smile.  “Thank you,” he said simply, thinking the simple phrase was somehow not enough to express his gratitude.  Faramir seemed to read his thoughts, and he bowed low, returning Aragorn’s smile before turning and striding from the room

“How fare you, Frodo?” Arwen suddenly spoke up from beside Aragorn, her eyes perusing the small hobbit.  “You seem weary.”

Frodo shrugged and attempted a smile.  “I’m alright,” he answered, shifting his weight and glancing down at his bandaged leg.  “I hardly feel any pain now, thanks to your excellent healing skill, my lady.”

Arwen smiled at the compliment.  “Your dressing probably needs changing, and I will see to that now.”  She glanced worriedly down at Aragorn, but at his encouraging nod she turned and left the room with Frodo.  Merry and Sam followed after, leaving Gandalf and Aragorn alone in the small room.

As soon as the door had shut, Gandalf released a loud sigh and sank onto the hard wooden stool next to the bed.  Aragorn watched him worriedly, thinking that the wizard looked far more weary and downcast than he had ever seen him.

“Faramir is right.” Gandalf said softly, “There is still much to do, and perhaps I should leave you now so that you may rest and recover your strength.”  Despite his words, the wizard remained seated, his eyes distant and sad.

“Tell me, Gandalf,” Aragorn said softly, watching the wizard from the corner of his eye.  “Tell me of the battle last night, and how the city fared against Malek and his army.”

Gandalf glanced at him and shook his head slightly.  “I shall tell you,” he responded with yet another deep sigh, “and yet I fear you shall not like the tale.”

Aragorn listened carefully to Gandalf’s every word as the wizard began relating all that had transpired within the city from the moment he and Legolas had left.  When Gandalf at last finished his tale, it was Aragorn’s turn to sigh deeply.

“It seems we had a _very_ close call,” he said somewhat shakily.

Gandalf let out a raw laugh.  “You have a knack for stating the obvious, my friend.”

“How long do you believe the city can hold out?” Aragorn asked seriously.

Gandalf took his time responding, and his eyes once more took on a distant look.  “With the other half of the army, we should be able to withstand Malek’s attacks for two, maybe three more days.  Our time is swiftly running out, and the sooner we find a way to lure out Malek and destroy him, the better.”

Aragorn nodded.  “He braved the day while hunting Legolas.  Perhaps we can convince him to try once more.  Maybe when we go in search of Legolas and Pippin tomorrow?”

Gandalf did not look convinced, yet he nodded slowly.  “If only I could find a way to restore my powers,” he muttered softly, his voice sounding frustrated and angry.  “And yet I fear it shall be a long time ere my full strength returns to me, and we do not have the time.”

“We will find a way,” Aragorn said with more conviction than he truly felt.

“Yes,” Gandalf replied with a sad smile.  “We shall, for we must.”  He stood then, turning to Aragorn one last time and squeezing his shoulder gently.  “Rest,” he ordered sternly, before turning and striding to the door.

“Gandalf,” Aragorn cried out, just as the wizard opened the door.

Gandalf turned back to him and raised a questioning eyebrow.

Aragorn seemed to struggle with what he wanted to say, but at last he blurted out, “Do you think Gimli may be right; do you believe Legolas may still be alive?”

“It is a possibility that I have not rejected,” the wizard answered carefully, “yet as I said before, what would that truly mean for Legolas?”

Aragorn nodded, his face full of understanding.  “And yet I cannot keep myself from hoping,” he said quietly.

Gandalf smiled sadly. “Nor can I.”

 

****

 

“Please let me help!” Dar’s small voice was loud and anxious.  “I promise I won’t get in the way!”

“We have already been over this, son,” Kenson replied firmly, pulling on his boots and adjusting the straps of his armor.  “If you truly wish to help, you can do so best by remaining here.”

“But I want to go with you,” Dar protested, his voice nearing a whine.  “I can take care of myself, and I’m not scared of orcs.”

Kenson sighed deeply, weary of the arguments he had been hearing for nigh on a quarter of an hour.  “You are too young, Dar,” he said resolutely, pinning his son with a look that clearly stated the discussion was at an end.

Dar’s small shoulders slumped, and the utter dejection upon his small face caused Kenson to sigh heavily once more.  

“The lady Arwen asked for you specifically, if that makes you feel any better,” he told his son, relieved when he saw a spark of interest ignite in Dar’s young face.  “You will have plenty of opportunities to help here, aiding the healers.” 

Dar looked anything but happy, but he at last gave up his hopeless pleading.  

Kenson straightened, then bowed low as he spotted the lady Arwen approaching them.  The elf princess nodded regally to him, then smiled down at Dar, receiving a return grin from the boy.

“Are you ready to help the other healers and I?” she asked Dar softly, squeezing his shoulder gently.

Dar glanced once more at his father before sighing and nodding his head.  “Yes,” he replied somewhat sullenly, then quickly added, “my lady,” at a sharp look from Kenson.  Arwen merely smiled.

“How fares the king, my lady?” Kenson asked with genuine concern, noticing the way the elf princess’s eyes clouded slightly at his question.

“Not well enough to join the defenders upon the wall, as he insists upon doing,” Arwen replied hotly, her tone heavy with frustration.  “Gimli is with him, yet I fear in the dwarf’s condition he will be unable to help should something go wrong.”

Kenson was not sure what Arwen meant by ‘in the dwarf’s condition’, yet he realized that he had obviously broached a sensitive subject.  

“His presence brings courage to the men,” he said slowly, watching Arwen’s reaction.  “I am sure that he will be just fine, my lady.”

Arwen looked at him, a slight smile lifting the corners of her lips, yet she did not respond.

Turning back to Dar, Kenson knelt before his son, gripping the boy's shoulders tightly and forcing the lad's eyes to meet his own.  “I want you to listen and obey everything the lady Arwen tells you,” he commanded, waiting for Dar’s nod before continuing.   “And I don’t want you to set foot outside of this building.  Not for any reason, do you understand?”  Once more Dar nodded, and Kenson pulled him forward into a tight embrace.  “I love you, son,” he whispered gruffly before rising and striding from the room, his heart torn by the well of unshed tears brimming in Dar’s eyes.

He let out a relieved sigh as he strode out the door, closing it firmly behind him and allowing the cool evening air to wrap itself around him.  Several of his men stood waiting for him outside and they closed in behind him as he made his way down the stone street toward the city wall.

As Kenson neared the wall, he allowed his eyes to travel up and down its long length until he spotted what he was looking for.  Mounting the stairs up to the wall he quickly made his way to a point almost directly over the north gate, bowing low as he neared the spot where Aragorn stood.  His sharp eyes quickly perused the king, noticing his slightly pale features.  Beside Aragorn, Gimli stood like a stone statue, his eyes staring out in the direction of the Ered Nimrais.

“Welcome, Kenson Brantz,” Aragorn called out as he approached, reaching forward and grasping his arm in a tight grip.  “Gandalf has told me of all you have done for the protection of this city, and you have my deepest gratitude.”

Kenson bowed once more at the king’s words, shrugging his shoulders slightly.  “Calembel is my home, my lord,” he replied evenly, “and even though there is some less than desirable aspects that go along with that fact, still I would protect it.”

Aragorn smiled understandingly at this statement.  “Is there something I can do for you, Captain Brantz?” he asked earnestly, searching Kenson’s face carefully.

“Nay, my lord,” Kenson answered softly.  “I merely ask that my companions and I be allowed to stand with you during this night’s battle.”

Aragorn’s smile grew wider, and he slowly began shaking his head.  “Did the lady Arwen send you, perchance?” he questioned lightly, eyeing Kenson up and down.

“No, my lord,” Kenson answered truthfully.  “I came on my own, though it is obvious that the lady worries for you.”

Aragorn’s smile faded, his eyes becoming serious once more.  “You are welcome to stand at my side this night, Captain, and I will be glad of your company.”

Kenson opened his mouth to reply, but he was abruptly cut off by the gruff voice of Gimli.

“We should not be here,” the dwarf stated flatly, turning to face Aragorn.  “We should be out there with Faramir,” he waved his arm toward the field before the city where soldiers were positioning themselves into two different defense lines.  “That is where the battle shall begin, and I do not like the thought of standing here waiting while others fight.”

“Nor do I, Gimli,” Aragorn responded gently.  “Yet I am afraid that I do not have the strength to join the front lines, and if you were to go alone, you would be too easy a target for Malek.”

Kenson watched as Gimli mumbled something noncommittal under his breath, turning away to once more stare at the mountains.  The merchant captain remembered Arwen’s words, and though he was anything but an expert on dwarves, he was certain that something was definitely bothering this one.  He was curious as to what it might be, yet from the look on both Gimli and Aragorn’s faces, he decided it would be best not to ask any questions right at the moment.

Kenson turned to his men, motioning for them to take up a defensive ring around Aragorn.  He hoped the king would not notice, or would at least not object to the extra protection.  When he turned back around, he found Aragorn watching him with an all too knowing expression, yet the man said nothing, and Kenson breathed a sigh of relief.

Several hours passed in relative silence except for the nervous shifting of the defenders upon the wall.  All eyes carefully watched the darkness leading up to the field, and weapons remained close to expectant hands.  Kenson had un-slung his own bow from his back and now held it ready before him.

It was around three hours after midnight, and Kenson was quickly becoming impatient, wondering why the orcs were waiting so long to attack. The thought had barely entered his head, when the first horns began to sound, echoing off the mountains and filling the valley with their eerie cry.  Aragorn straightened, his eyes vainly attempting to pierce the heavy darkness before the city.  “They come,” he whispered softly, raising his own bow slightly.

A few minutes later, the horn calls intensified as the first wave of orcs broke from the surrounding darkness and began to form into long lines in front of the city.  The light from the fire pits along the wall and also from the still burning fire on the field cast eerie shadows up and down along the line of orcs, making them look even more hideous than before.

The city defenders, both those on the field and up on the wall, drew their weapons and prepared themselves to meet the orcs first attack.  An unnatural silence fell upon the valley as the orc horns suddenly grew quiet, and the two armies faced off across the wide field.  A tense expectation filled the air, a sense that _something_ was about to happen.

Suddenly, a low murmur swept through the soldiers upon the wall, and many began to point toward a certain spot in the line of creature’s facing the city.  Kenson followed the pointing fingers, his eyes searching for any clue as to what might be causing the commotion among the soldiers.  What he saw caused his breath to catch in his throat and his body to stiffen.

There, standing directly before the front rank of orcs, the light clearly silhouetted the form of an elf, long golden hair waving slightly in the breeze and a long bow held firmly in his hands.

“Legolas!”  The cry came from Gimli, as the dwarf stumbled forward to the edge of the wall, gripping the stone rim tightly, his face pale and shocked.

Beside him, Aragorn’s entire body had stiffened, a horrified expression filling his face.

Kenson felt his own shock making it hard to breathe as he stared down incredulously at the elf he had first met on a rainy morning three days ago.

“That is not Legolas, Gimli,” Aragorn spoke up softly, his expression still showing his horror.

Kenson glanced at him, wondering what the king was speaking of.  He knew that many elves looked alike, but there could be no mistaking the tall and proud form of Legolas standing before the orc army.

“He is merely toying with us once more,” Aragorn continued softly, his eyes now turned toward the distraught dwarf.  “It is not Legolas,” he repeated again, his voice firm and steady.

Kenson was still confused, and several minutes passed before Gimli at last ripped his gaze from the form standing upon the field.  “He shall pay for this,” the dwarf said simply, his voice ringing with a cold promise that made Kenson shiver.  Aragorn met Gimli’s eyes, and a sort of understanding seemed to pass between them.  Kenson opened his mouth, unable to contain his curiosity any longer, but he was given no chance to speak.  The figure upon the field raised its hand and let it drop, and the orcs surged forward with a roar, straight toward Faramir and the first line of defense.

All those upon the city wall tensed as they watched the wave of orcs swarm forward, crashing into the first line of defenders.  Amazingly, the orcs were thrown back, and soon the air was filled with screams and the angry clashing of swords.  The orcs obviously had not been expecting such fierce resistance, for the defenders had been reinforced with new, fresh soldiers, and they fought bravely.  

With a howl, the orcs pressed forward once more, their sheer number slowly and inevitably pushing back the first line of defense.  The defenders gave slowly, making the orcs fight for each step.  Those upon the wall watched with bated breath as the first and second defense lines fused and once more brought the orcs' advance to a halt.

Kenson shifted impatiently, watching the fierce battle rage beneath him and strangely wishing that he were down there, fighting against the foul creatures that would take his home.  He knew that his chance would come all too soon, and yet he could barely refrain from racing down from the wall and into the wild struggle.

After what seemed like several hours of intense fighting, the defenders on the field once again began a slow retreat. As the battle drew closer to the city wall, Kenson lifted his bow and expertly notched an arrow, dimly aware of others doing the same around him.  Suddenly, the high clear note of a horn could be heard, calling for the retreat of the defenders on the field back into the city.  At the sound, the soldiers immediately broke away from the orcs and began racing toward the open gate.  The orcs let out a howl and charged after, but the defenders upon the wall were ready, and a hail of arrows rained down upon the orcs, effectively covering the soldiers' retreat and slowing the enemy's advance.

Kenson fired arrow after arrow, distantly aware that the last of the field defenders were making a break for the gates.  He could make out Faramir, mounted upon a tall white horse, the last to retreat and closely hounded by several orcs.  He abruptly shifted his position, aiming his arrows at the orcs that surrounded the Steward and giving the man the precious seconds he needed to break free and gallop full speed into the relative safety of the city.

The freshly mended gates slammed shut with a loud clang, and all those upon the wall let out a shout of victory.  The orcs, however, were not finished.  They swarmed against the city like a tidal wave against a rocky shore, appearing like small ants as they attempted to breach the wall.  Kenson and the other archers continued to fire volley after volley down into the mass of orcs as Faramir and the other defenders joined them upon the wall.  Yet for every orc that fell, two seemed to replace it. 

Kenson was dimly aware of the loud clatter of grappling hooks and siege ladders falling all about him.  Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Gimli leap forward, swinging down with his axe and effectively cutting loose one of the ropes.  Minutes later, the distant clang of sword upon sword proclaimed that some of the creatures had managed to gain the wall. Hours seemed to pass in a matter of minutes, and as the number of orcs upon the wall grew, Kenson was forced to abandon his bow and draw his sword.  He glanced around and found Aragorn fighting a few feet away, the king showing no signs of weakness as he slashed and cut at several orcs attempting to reach him.  Several of Kenson’s men still surrounded Aragorn, fighting off even more orcs, and the Captain allowed himself to turn away with a satisfied nod.  

He slashed out, his sword biting deeply into the belly of an overanxious orc.  The creature fell with a howl, as Kenson’s blade found the throat of the orc behind it, dropping that creature as well.  Time seemed to slow, as one orc after another threw themselves at the warrior, and were quickly dropped by his sword.

A loud roar caused Kenson to start slightly, and he turned to find Gimli madly fighting off nearly a half dozen orcs that had converged upon him.  The dwarf’s face was alight with a fierce battle rage, and Kenson watched in astonishment as the orcs either fell or fled before his wrath.  He was still watching the dwarf, when a large orc slipped past Gimli’s axe and slammed the hilt of his heavy blade down upon the dwarf’s shoulder.

Kenson heard Gimli let out a cry, releasing his axe as the force of the blow dropped him to the ground.  He began to race forward to help, watching in horror as the orc prepared to deliver his killing blow.  Suddenly, an arrow whizzed past Kenson’s head and buried itself deep within the creature’s chest.  The captain glanced over his shoulder just in time to see Aragorn lower his bow.

“Help him,” the king called out, as several orcs converged upon him once more.

Kenson nodded and quickly fought his way to Gimli’s side, reaching down and hauling the shaken dwarf to his feet.  He grabbed Gimli’s fallen axe, and then slowly began to fight his way back toward Aragorn, dragging Gimli after him.  He was not sure how badly hurt the dwarf was, but about half way to their destination, Gimli broke free from his grasp and reached out for his axe.  Kenson was only too happy to give the heavy weapon back, and together, the two fought their way to were Aragorn stood.

“Are you alright?” Aragorn called to Gimli once they had reached him.

Gimli nodded, though his face was pale and his left arm hung limp and useless at his side.

“Stay together,” Aragorn shouted, as the three warriors formed a triangle, backs to each other and facing the attacking orcs.  

Kenson looked around for any sight of his men, but in the wild melee upon the wall, it was impossible to see anything but madly struggling bodies.  He quickly abandoned his search as several large orcs charged them, forcing him to focus all his attention on fighting the brutes back.  He slashed at the wrist of one, causing it to drop its weapon, then quickly dispatched the creature with a smooth thrust of his sword.  He turned just in time to block yet another sword thrust aimed at his belly, sweeping the blade out wide then coming in sharp with his own sword.  The orc hadn’t even hit the ground before Kenson stepped toward his next target, only to find that Aragorn had beaten him to it.  The king yanked his sword free of the creature’s chest, smoothly stepping back to avoid the black spray of blood.  

The Captain’s eyes met Aragorn’s, and Kenson raised his sword in a salute.  He was just turning away when he felt the ground beneath his feet give a sudden shudder, and a loud boom filled the valley.  The first shudder was quickly followed by another, and Kenson realized that the orcs still on the ground were attacking the newly mended gates.  He had no chance to react to this new development, for suddenly a fresh wave of orcs sprang over the wall and charged toward him, their howls filled with the lust for blood.

 

*****

Dar gripped the edge of the window tightly, peering out into the dark night and listening to the distant sounds of the battle.  A frown of pure frustration covered his young face and his teeth worried his bottom lip unconsciously.  

Throughout the night he had been kept very busy running errands for the healers; fetching water and bandages, helping prepare beds for the flow of injured expected after the battle, and overall attempting to keep out from underfoot.  Now, however, things seemed to have at last settled down as the healers tended to the wounded already in their care and waited for the chaos that morning would surely bring.

During this lull, Dar had managed to slip off to a distant window looking out onto the streets leading down to the city wall.  He had remained here for close to an hour, his avid imagination coming up with all sorts of terrible things that must be going on down at the battlefront.  

He was so caught up in his own thoughts that he failed to notice the approach of Arwen until the elf princess laid a soft hand upon his shoulder.  Dar started violently, then immediately flushed in embarrassment.

“Do you worry for your father?” Arwen asked gently, kneeling down until she was eyelevel with the boy.

Dar nodded, glancing down at the floor and swallowing the sudden lump forming in his throat.  He didn’t know what it was about the lady Arwen, yet every time she looked at him it seemed that she saw right through him, reading his thoughts and understanding his deepest emotions.  One look into those light, clear eyes, and Dar felt like sharing all his deepest fears and frustrations.  He also felt like bawling, and that scared him the worst.  True warriors did not cry!

“I wish he had let me go with him,” he muttered sullenly, still staring at the ground.

“Your father seems like a very fine warrior,” Arwen answered softly, reaching out and gently brushing away a stray strand of hair from Dar’s forehead.  “I am sure that he will be just fine.”

Dar again merely nodded, turning once more to stare out the window.  “When do you think he will be coming back?” he asked in a whisper.

“Dawn is but a little over an hour away,” Arwen replied softly.  “I am sure the battle is nearing an end even as we speak.”

The words had barely left the elf’s mouth, when the distant sound of horns drifted up the city streets.  Arwen smiled at the sound, gripping both of Dar’s shoulders.  “You see?” she whispered excitedly, “even now the orc horns call for their retreat.”

Dar returned her grin.  “May I go and find my father now?” he begged.

Arwen shook her head slightly.  “I promised him that I would keep you here until he could return for you,” she answered firmly.  “However,” she continued at his crestfallen look, “he also promised to come for you as soon as possible.  I am sure he will be here very shortly.”

“Can I stay here and watch for him?” Dar asked, motioning toward the window.

Arwen nodded.  “They will be bringing in the injured soldiers soon, and it will be best if you remain out of the way.”  She squeezed his shoulder one last time, then rose and walked away.

Dar watched her go, and then turned back to the window expectantly.  It seemed like hours to the impatient boy before he at last made out the shadowy forms of soldiers walking up the street.  Many of them were limping or being supported by others, and a wagon followed soon after, filled with soldiers too badly hurt to walk. As they drew nearer, Dar studied each face for some sign of his father, his heart beating wildly.

As it was, the first tinges of dawn were already beginning to lighten the horizon when Dar at last spotted his father wearily making his way up the stone street toward the house of healing.  Dar immediately darted away from the window, racing to the door and out onto the street to meet his father.  

Kenson stopped and dropped to one knee when he spotted his son racing toward him, opening his arms in welcome.

Dar threw himself into the open embrace, unable to stop his flow of tears at the sight of the bright stain of blood covering one side of his father’s face.  He buried his head against his father’s strong shoulder, attempting to control the sobs of relief that shook his frame.

Kenson held his small son tightly, stroking Dar’s back and murmuring soft words of comfort.  At last, Dar pulled away and looked up at him, his body still jerking with an occasional hiccup.  His eyes widened in surprise when he saw the unmistakable glint of tears reflected in his father’s own eyes.  He stared in wonder for a few seconds before once again collapsing against the firm strength of his father, smiling slightly and thinking that perhaps true warriors did cry sometimes after all.

 

*****

 

Gimli walked slowly through the wreckage of the battlefield, his mind barely digesting the horror around him.  He wandered without any true purpose, watching as the first rays of the sun lit up the horizon.

He was unsure exactly why he had slipped away from Aragorn, unsure why he had chosen this area to walk and attempt to sort through his thoughts.  Perhaps the wreckage and death that surrounded him somehow fit with his tattered and stretched emotions.

At last, he came to a stop, lifting his head and closing his eyes.  He pulled in a deep breath, hoping that some fresh air would help to clear his muddled thoughts.  However, the air was anything but fresh, instead smelling of death and fear and causing him to cough and choke.

With a sigh, Gimli lowered his head, opening his eyes to the sight around him once more.  He stood motionless for several seconds before at last turning and beginning to make his way back toward the city.

He had taken no more than three steps when something to his left suddenly caught his attention.  He stopped short, staring at the spot several yards away and wondering what it was that had caught his eye.  He could see nothing, and yet something seemed to be drawing him toward this area.  With a shrug of his shoulders, he began carefully making his way toward the spot, surprised at the wild pounding of his heart.  

Once he reached the area, he once more came to a stop, looking around him and trying to still the near frantic pounding within his chest.  He could see nothing, and he was confused by the strange reactions of his body to this one area.  His eyes locked with the staring gaze of a dead soldier, and suddenly he found it difficult to breath.

Carefully kneeling beside the dead man, Gimli hesitantly reached out and rolled the body to the side.  His heart stopped its heavy beating at what he saw.   In fact, it stopped beating completely, and his breath caught in his throat.

He knelt for what seemed like hours before he slowly reached out with a trembling hand and touched the object that lay before him, almost as if testing to see if it was real.  The smooth brush of wood against his fingertips seemed to jerk his body back into reality, and his heart once more began beating jerkily.  

The faint light of morning danced and shimmered among the delicately carved leaves and smooth flowing elvish runes, and Gimli felt as if he was somehow dreaming as he lifted the beautiful bow of Lorien from where it lay upon the ground.  

He cradled the weapon against his chest, continuing to kneel upon the ground for several long minutes, staring at the towering peaks of the Ered Nimrais.  At last, he rose, and still holding Legolas’s bow cradled against his chest, he turned and made his way back to the city.


	22. Breath of Fresh Air

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Fellowship is reuniting, but may face a new threat that is hunting them all.

Pippin sat huddled and miserable deep within the cold confines of Malek’s lair, his eyes downcast and his arms wrapped around his small body in a futile attempt to gain some warmth.  A cold chill seemed to fill his body and spirit, and despite the cloak wrapped tightly about him, he could not seem to stop shaking.  The only place on him that was not numb with cold was his left cheekbone, where Malek had struck him earlier.  Four, deep, red scratches ran down his face from the creature’s claws, and the welts burned fiercely in contrast with his otherwise frozen body.   

Though Pippin remained outwardly motionless, inwardly his mind was whirling madly, his foremost thought that of escape.  He did not know how, just as he knew that attempting it was nigh on impossible; yet he was determined to try.  He also knew that he would have to move soon if he was to have even the slightest chance of success.  Malek was gone, off leading the orc army in their mischief at Calembel, his black presence no longer throwing a heavy shadow over Pippin’s mind.  Only a dozen orcs had been left behind to guard the prisoners, and Pippin knew he would not get a better opportunity.

_‘Only a dozen,’_ he thought wryly to himself, shaking his head slowly, ‘ _come on, Pippin, a true warrior of Gondor would not be daunted by a mere dozen orcs!’_ If the situation hadn’t been so serious, he might have laughed at the thought.  After all, it had been his desire to prove himself that had gotten him into this whole mess in the first place. The truth of the matter was, the thought of battling twelve orcs was more than daunting, it was terrifying.  _‘Perhaps if I had Legolas to aid me…’_  He did not finish the thought, knowing the futility of such hopeless wishing.  There would be no aid from Legolas.  Whatever he was going to do, he would have to do it on his own.

As thoughts of Legolas unavoidably filled his mind, he turned and glanced at the elf sitting a few feet away.  Legolas had awakened shortly after Malek’s departure, much to Pippin’s immediate relief.  However, that relief had quickly faded upon closer inspection of his friend.  Legolas’ face was far too pale, and when he had pushed himself into a sitting position, the cave floor had shone bright with the blood from his mutilated back.  His long golden hair hung limp and dirty about his shoulders, and his chest was covered in bloody scratches.  

Yet that had not been the worst.  Since waking, Legolas had not said a single word, nor had he responded at all when Pippin called his name.  Instead, he merely sat with his knees pulled up to his bare chest, his bound arms wrapped around his legs and his eyes staring forward, sightlessly.

Pippin had been frightened when he looked into those eyes.  Frightened by the dull lifelessness that stared back at him from the glassy gray orbs. Legolas’ eyes had always been full of light and hope, yet now it seemed as if all light had been extinguished from them, leaving in its place only a dark anguish.  What was even worse, when Legolas looked at him there was no recognition, in fact, no emotion whatsoever.  There was only the cold and sightless gaze of one completely dead to his surroundings.

Pippin had crawled to the elf’s side, desperate to garner some response from his friend.  When he had reached out and touched Legolas, he had found the elf’s skin cold and clammy, with no hint of warmth.  He had immediately cast about him for Legolas’ discarded cloak, finding it and struggling to place it over his hunched form, wincing as he viewed his friend’s mutilated back up close.  He had held a brief hope that Legolas’ cold skin came from the chill within the cave.  However, somehow he found himself doubting.  The icy feel of Legolas’ flesh was too much like the cold within his eyes, and Pippin guessed it came not from natural causes, nor even from his wounds.  He suspected that the cold came instead from something Malek had done to Legolas.   It was as if a shadow enveloped his friend, choking off all light and warmth.

Now, as Pippin watched him, he found no change in Legolas’ condition.  The elf continued to stare straight ahead sightlessly, an occasional blink the only sign that he was even conscious.  

Pippin swallowed hard, fighting back hopeless tears.  Whatever dark curse Malek had placed upon Legolas, he was determined to find a way to reverse it.  He was sure Aragorn would know what to do to help the elf, for Aragorn always seemed to know what to do.  Yet in that case, Pippin still had to find a way to get Legolas to Aragorn, and that would prove to be easier said than done.

The fact that they _had_ to escape was not what was giving him problems.  It was the _how_ that had him stumped.  He had been attempting to come up with a plan of escape for well over an hour, and he knew his time was swiftly running out.  It just seemed so impossible, bound as he was, with a dozen orcs standing guard.  Yet he had to try.  For Legolas, he had to try.   He figured that even should the orcs kill him, it would be better than anything awaiting him when Malek returned.  Especially if the creature tried to continue what he had started with Legolas, for Pippin had already decided that he would do anything to keep Malek from hurting his friend again. 

The first thing he had to do was find a way free of his bonds.  The ropes holding him were far too tight, the knots too secure for him to twist his way free, even if he were given days to try.  He would need something with which to cut them, yet this once again posed a dead end.  The area around him was completely barren of any small shards of rock with which he could saw at the ropes, and the nearest orc blade lay far out of reach.  He closed his eyes in frustration, wondering how on earth he could even dream of escape if he was not even able to break free from his bindings.  He was sure that Legolas could have come up with a way to work the ropes loose, yet he was at a complete loss.

Once more, Pippin glanced toward Legolas, then started violently when he found the elf staring back at him.  Legolas’s eyes were still void of life and energy, and Pippin saw no sign of recognition, yet he felt a thrill of hope run through him.

“Legolas,” he called gently, his voice low and quiet in an attempt to avoid drawing their guards’ attention.

The elf blinked slowly, his only response before turning away to stare straight forward once more.

“Legolas,” Pippin called out again, raising his voice just a little.  He imagined he saw his friend’s head move slightly, but the elf did not turn again.  Still, he seemed to be showing more signs of awareness than he had before, and Pippin was glad of that.  He scooted closer to the elf, reaching out and touching Legolas’s shoulder lightly.  His friend did not respond at all to his touch, and Pippin sighed as he felt the icy chill still radiating from Legolas’s skin, despite the heavy cloak covering him.

Touching Legolas only seemed to add to his own chill, and Pippin quickly pulled away, grasping his own cloak and pulling it more firmly about him.  He closed his eyes and let out a weary sigh, resisting the urge to just lie down and go to sleep.  Despite his best efforts to keep his mind focused upon escape, he slowly found his thoughts drifting.  He thought of the Shire and of long summer nights spent idly smoking pipe weed and visiting with old friends.  He remembered grand feasts set beneath large, shady trees and of single meals that often lasted all day.  

The thought of food caused his stomach to clench painfully, reminding him that he had not eaten in quite some time.  He tried to push his thoughts away from food, yet it was a losing battle. He began to picture in his mind every grand banquet and delicious feast he had ever partaken of, and there were quite a few to go through.  His mouth began to water, and his empty stomach growled loudly, causing him to groan softly in discomfort.

_‘What I wouldn’t give for just a single flake of lembas about now,’_ he thought glumly, his bound hands pressing against his empty stomach.  

Thoughts of the elvish waybread led to thoughts of Lothlorien, and Pippin let out a soft sigh of longing.  He could clearly see the beautiful home of the Galadrim, the picture as fresh in his mind as if only a day, instead of nearly a year, had passed since last visiting there.  No place more beautiful had Pippin ever seen, and his memories of the golden wood and the elves that lived there seemed to warm his spirit, causing him to relax even further.  

The cloak he now wore had been a gift from the elves of Lorien, and Pippin smiled as he remembered a seemingly much younger self asking the elves if the cloaks were magic.

‘ _I do not know what you mean by magic,_ ’ one of the Galadrim had answered him, ‘ _They are fair garments, and the web is good, for it was made in this land.  They are elvish robes certainly, if that is what you meant.  You are indeed in high favor with the Lady, for she herself and her maidens wove this, and never before have we clad strangers in the garb of our own people.’ *_

Now, with his bound hands gently brushing the smooth cloth, and his eyes tightly closed, Pippin could almost picture himself back within the golden wood.  Once more, he smelled the sweet and fresh scent of life and listened to the gentle and magical singing that seemed to constantly fill the air.  His hands brushed against the leaf shaped brooch at his neck, and suddenly, a picture of the lady Galadriel filled his mind.  So real was the image, that Pippin jerked upright, his eyes flying open and his heart beating wildly.  Still, the image remained, the radiance that was Galadriel shining upon him and filling him with a strange comfort.  It was as if the Lady were speaking to him, and though her words were spoken in her own language, it seemed to him that he could almost understand them.  The words were filled with encouragement and hope, and Pippin sighed contentedly, allowing his eyes to drift shut once more.

When the image at last began to fade from his mind, Pippin realized that he was gripping the brooch so tightly that the metal was cutting into his palms.  He released the brooch, lowering his palms and looking, somewhat chagrined, at the deep groove pressed into his skin.  He placed his palms together and gently began rubbing back and forth as best he could with his tightly bound wrists.  

Suddenly, he froze, staring down at his hands, eyes widening.  _‘You fool of a Tookl!’_ his mind screamed, as he gritted his teeth and shut his eyes in pure frustration with himself.  _‘Here has been the answer all along.  Right beneath my very nose, and still I did not see it!’_ If his feet had not been bound, he would have kicked himself.

His eyes flew open, and he quickly glanced around him, noting the position of each of the orc guards.  The nearest one, only a few yards away, lay spread eagled upon the ground, snoring loudly.  Two more stood near the opening to one of the tunnel entrances, and the rest were gathered in a tight circle about ten yards off, laughing and arguing loudly.  None were even looking in the direction of the prisoners, and Pippin felt a flare of hope.  

Quickly reaching up with slightly fumbling fingers, he undid the brooch from his cloak, clasping it tightly in his hands and lowering them to his lap.  Carefully, he positioned himself at an angle where he could keep an eye on the orcs while still shielding most of his own body from their view.  Closely examining the brooch, he found the sharpest end near the very tip of the leaf, and pulling his legs up, he began sawing at the ropes binding his ankles.

The work was agonizingly slow, his bound wrist making it difficult to angle the brooch just right, and his bent position causing his shoulders to continually cramp.  He kept half of his attention upon his job, and the other half upon the orcs, making sure the creatures didn’t look over and discover him.  Luck remained with him, for the orcs continued to pay no heed whatsoever to their captives.  After all, what harm could come from a small, bound hobbit and a catatonic elf.

Pippin no longer felt cold, for his excitement was more than enough to keep him warm.  He reminded himself that escaping from his bindings was only the first step.  He still had to find a way to get past the orc guards, and that would prove twice as difficult.  

Working as quickly as he could, he sawed away the ropes until only a couple of strands remained, weak enough that a simple tug would free him.  That task finished, he rolled onto his side, placing the leaf brooch between his raised knees and beginning to saw at the rope holding his wrists.  The new position put his back to the orc guards, and Pippin was forced to move even slower so that the movement of his arms would not give himself away if one of the orcs happened to glance in his direction.

He had nearly finished sawing through the binds on his wrist, when his senses warned him of the approach of one of the orcs.  He froze, quickly tucking his wrists close against his chest and forcing his body to relax.  The shuffle of heavy boots drew closer, and Pippin closed his eyes, forcing his breathing to remain calm and steady.  Obviously, the orcs had decided to check on their prisoners, and Pippin could only hope the creature would think him asleep and leave him alone.  If the orc decided to check the ropes…

A heavy shadow fell across Pippin, and it took all of his self-control to keep from tensing.  _‘I can’t get caught now, not when I am so close,’_ he thought desperately, praying that the orc would go away and leave him alone.  The creature remained standing over him for what seemed like years to Pippin, his heavy breathing grating on the hobbit’s nerves.  At last, the orc turned away, the sound of his boots retreating across the cave.  

Pippin could not stop the soft sigh of relief that escaped as the creature’s shadow left him.  He remained perfectly still, not even daring to open his eyes, his entire attention focused upon listening to the movements of his guards.  He could still make out the rough snores of the nearest creature, yet it seemed as if something was going on with the others, and Pippin strained his ears to catch any clue as to what it might be.  There was an awful lot of shuffling feet, a couple of grunts, and then the heavy tramp of many booted feet moving across the cave.

Unable to resist his curiosity, Pippin slowly raised his head and glanced over his shoulder, watching in amazement as all but three of the orcs disappeared down the main tunnel entrance, the sound of their footfalls slowly receding into the blackness.  One of the remaining orcs still slept soundly, and the other two now sat several yards off, their weapons set carelessly beside them.

Pippin could not believe his luck, and he watched the tunnel entrance closely, expecting the other orcs to reappear any moment.  However, when several minutes had passed without their return, Pippin grew excited.  Quickly sawing the rest of the way through the remaining strands, he rolled into a sitting position, holding the cut ends in his hands to hide the fact that he was free.  He knew he had to work quickly, for he did not know when the other orcs would return, and he planned to be long gone before they did.  He glanced around, trying to figure out what his next move should be.  His eyes fell on Legolas, and he once more found the elf silently watching him.  He smiled excitedly at his friend, only a little discouraged when he received no response. 

He continued to look around the room, his eyes at last coming to rest upon the sleeping orc a few paces away.  The creature’s slumber was obviously deep, for he had not stirred at all at the others leaving, and Pippin’s eyes came to rest upon his blade, lying a few feet from his outstretched hand.

Quickly and quietly, he removed the ropes from his wrist, then bent over and pulled away the ones from around his ankles as well.  He knew that once he made his first move, there would be no turning back.  He would have to be quick and silent, and if he were to fail… He did not allow the thought to finish.  Failure was not an option. 

Before he could lose courage, Pippin silently rose, closely watching the two orcs who had their backs turned to him.  With as much stealth as he could muster, he tiptoed over to the sleeping orc, bent over and carefully picked up the creature’s sword.  The weapon was heavy, and Pippin let out a soft grunt as he lifted the blade over the orc’s still snoring form.  He hesitated only for a moment before swinging the sword downward with all his might.

A sickening crunch filled the cave as the sharp sword cleanly cut through the orc’s neck, severing his head completely in one blow.  A spray of black blood rose upward, splattering onto Pippin’s face and causing him to wretch violently.  He felt as if he was about to be very ill, and it took all of his strength to turn from the dead orc and face the remaining two guards.

The creatures had jumped to their feet and were staring at Pippin in complete astonishment, their eyes wide and disbelieving.  Pippin used their moment of inactivity to steady himself, gripping the orc blade tightly and preparing himself for what would come next.

The orcs’ surprise only lasted a second, and with a howl they reached for their weapons.  

Pippin darted across the cave, slashing out with his new weapon and managing to cut deeply into the wrist of the first orc.  The creature let out a howl, dropping the weapon he had been in the process of raising.  Pippin pressed his attack, stabbing inward and feeling his sword slide smoothly into the orc’s abdomen.  He yanked the blade back, feeling a moment of panic when the weapon seemed to catch.  He was desperately aware of the third orc racing toward him, and with a final yank he managed to pull the blade free.  

The orc was upon him, and Pippin barely managed to raise his sword to block the downward stroke of the creature.  The force of the blow drove him to his knees, and the orc raised his blade above him.  Pippin flung himself sideways, his sword arm flinging out to cut at the orc’s knees.  The creature howled and jumped backward, tripping over its dead companion and falling to the ground.  Pippin was immediately up, racing forward and stabbing downward into the orc’s exposed chest.  The creature let out yet another blood chilling howl, limbs flailing, one arm connecting violently with the side of Pippin’s head, sending him flying backward.  He landed hard upon the stone floor, the breath knocked from him and the fresh taste of blood filling his mouth.  He let out a gasping cough, spitting out the blood before pushing himself to his feet.

The orc continued to flail, but his eyes were beginning to glaze over, and Pippin knew the fight was over.  He gasped in relief, unable to stop the trembling of his limbs.  He had done it!  He felt a surge of relief, which was quickly replaced by caution.  The other orcs may have heard their companions’ cries, and if so, they would be coming to investigate.  

Rushing forward, he swept up the first orc’s weapon, then turned and raced back to Legolas.  Now would come the difficult part.  If he could not manage to get Legolas up and moving, then it all would be for naught, for there was no way he could carry the elf.  He swiftly cut Legolas loose, then straightened and grabbed his friend’s arm, pulling lightly.

“Come, Legolas, we must go now,” he urged gently, looking deep into the elf’s eyes and attempting to find some sign of awareness.

Legolas stared back at him and did not move.

Pippin grabbed both of Legolas’ arms, pulling with all his strength in an attempt to get the elf up and moving.  “We have to leave now, Legolas,” he cried, his voice filled with desperation.

He almost lost his balance and went tumbling to the ground when Legolas suddenly responded. The elf shifted his position forward, rising shakily.  Pippin gave him what support he could, feeling a flash of relief as he gently pulled Legolas toward the nearest tunnel entrance.  The elf followed slowly, his every movement painfully sluggish, his head bowed to the ground.

A torch hung from a metal bracket next to the tunnel entrance, and Pippin realized they would need the light to navigate in the dark passageway.  Yet in order to hold the torch, he would need a free hand.  That meant either releasing Legolas or dropping his weapon.  He was not sure if Legolas would move forward without his urging, which meant he would have to leave the sword behind.  He hesitated, knowing that if they were caught, he would be weaponless.  However, at the moment, the light was more important.  With any luck, he and Legolas would be long gone before the orcs discovered their absence.

As if in mockery of his desperate wish, a distant shout echoed through the cavern, drawing closer.  Pippin immediately dropped his sword, grabbed the torch, and then plunged into the cold, dark passage, pulling Legolas behind him.  He tried to push the elf to a faster pace, but soon found that Legolas seemed only capable of a slow walk.  He reminded himself that his friend was hurt badly, yet he still felt frustration rise in him at each passing second.  It would not take the orcs long to discover which tunnel they had taken, and Pippin wanted to be well ahead of them when they did.

Only a few paces in, the passageway split, and Pippin did not hesitate before plunging into the left tunnel.  He did not know where the passageway led, yet anywhere was better than where they were before.  He cared only that each step hopefully carried them further from Malek’s lair and the orcs that hunted them.  

He kept a tight grip on Legolas’ arm, wincing every time the elf stumbled over a loose rock or the uneven ground.  The torch illuminated only a couple feet ahead, and Pippin was kept busy watching every step while listening carefully for any sounds of pursuit.

The tunnel split again, and this time Pippin turned right, only to find the passageway ended abruptly a few paces in.  Quickly backtracking, he prayed that the whole tunnel would not turn out to be one gigantic dead end.  Already, he could hear distant shouts back the way he had come, and he guessed that the orcs had figured out that their prisoners had escaped.  It would not take them long to be on their trail.

Suddenly, Legolas tripped, almost going down and carrying Pippin with him.  The hobbit barely managed to catch his balance, steadying Legolas and eyeing him with concern.  The elf looked even paler than before, if that was possible, and his dull eyes had a glassy look to them.

“Come on, Legolas,” Pippin urged quietly.  “Just a little bit further and we shall be out of this dark hole.”

Not surprisingly, Legolas did not answer, and Pippin once more led the way forward.  As they moved on, Pippin slowly became aware of a gentle rushing sound filling the tunnel.  At first, he was confused by the sound, for the further they went, the louder it became.  Suddenly, he stopped, slow realization dawning on him.

“Water,” he whispered aloud.  “It must be one of the underground rivers Aragorn spoke of.”  He continued forward slowly, a plan beginning to form in his mind.  If he and Legolas could find the river, then perhaps they could follow its path out of the mountain.  He could no longer hear the sound of pursuit, yet he knew that did not necessarily mean that the orcs were not there, or even that they were not close.  Orcs could be quite silent if they had a mind to, and Pippin was not going to dare hope that they had not been followed.

The tunnel split several more times, yet Pippin now began to stop at each diverge, listening carefully before choosing whatever passageway he believed would carry him closer to the river.  He was unsure how long he and Legolas had been travelling, but his friend was beginning to stumble more often, and Pippin feared he would not make it much further without rest.  He had not wanted to stop until free of the black cave, and yet if they did not find the river soon….

His thoughts trailed away as he rounded a corner of the tunnel and the roar suddenly increased tenfold.  The edge of his torch just barely illuminated the edges of the river, and Pippin felt a surge of renewed energy.  He quickly moved forward, then stopped, a frown crossing his face.  

Instead of running parallel to the path, as he had hoped, the river cut across it horizontally, surging into yet another tunnel and disappearing into the inky blackness.  This was not what Pippin had expected, and he found himself wondering what to do next.  He was not given long to ponder, however, for a sound back from the direction they had come caused his blood to freeze and his heart to race.  The unmistakable sound of a boot scuffing against loose stone, and it was not that far behind him, either.  There would be no backtracking.  

Pippin stared hopelessly across the expanse of the river.  It did not look to be particularly wide or deep, nor the current very strong, yet with the poor light of the torch, he had no way of being certain.  He had little doubt that he could manage to swim across it on his own, but with Legolas, things became a little more complicated.  He did not know if the elf was aware enough to swim if he entered the river, and he doubted he could keep both of them afloat and still make it across without being carried away down the tunnel. It looked as if they were trapped, with no way forward, and no way back.  He didn’t even have a weapon with which to defend them.

_‘Has it all been for nothing then?’_ he questioned numbly, feeling as though he would like to sit down and cry.  _‘What am I to do now?’_

As if in answer to his silent plea, Pippin imagined he felt the soft caress of a gentle breeze brush against his cheek.  He froze, his eyes staring across the river and down the passageway beyond.  The breeze came again, this time strong enough to cause the torch to waver slightly. The soft movement of air wrapped about him, carrying with it an unmistakable fresh scent.  His heart began pounding wildly, and he peered forward intently across the river, imagining that he could barely make out a tiny pinprick of light at the far end of the tunnel.  He had no way of being sure of this, yet when the gentle breeze once more caressed his face, he knew what he had to do.

‘There is the way out of this dark hole, and there is the way we must go!’ he thought with grim determination.

Carefully, he positioned the torch between an outcropping of rock close enough to the river that the majority of their journey across would be lighted.  Once they reached the other side of the river, they would have to proceed in darkness. Yet if his guess proved to be correct, they would not have to go far.  

He quickly stripped off his cloak, rolling it up tightly and tucking it into the back of his belt so the heavy cloth would not drag at him during the crossing.  He considered doing the same with Legolas, but decided against it.  The cloak was the only thing covering the elf’s back and shoulders, and he would need some protection against the icy cold water.

With a sigh, Pippin gave a final glance back the way they had just come, last minute doubts clouding his mind.  He had heard nothing else since the last shuffle of boots, and he was beginning to think maybe his frightened mind had merely imagined it.  Crossing the river definitely had its dangers.  If the current was stronger than he thought, or the river deeper, Legolas and he might be easily swept away to their certain deaths.  Even should they manage to cross, freezing to death was a possibility, for they would have no fire with which to stop and dry their clothes.  Also, he was unsure how long they had been wandering in the tunnel.  It was possible that it could still be night outside the caves, which would mean the absence of the sun to warm them once they had made it out.  Legolas was already far too cold, and with his injuries, a simple swim could easily cause the elf to take a turn for the worse.

On the other hand, backtracking, even without the risk of running into orcs, would mean wandering around for who knew how long, searching for another exit that might or might not be there.

“This is the way we must go,” he said softly, aloud.  

He quickly turned and grabbed Legolas’ arm once more, plunging forward with the elf before his doubts could cause him to change his mind.  From the minute his feet hit the water, they went numb, and he gasped aloud at the icy temperature.  Yet he did not turn back.  Moving as swiftly as he could, he surged forward, moving upstream, against the current.  Legolas followed silently after, wading into the frigid water without a sound.

Luck seemed to have decided to stay with the two companions for just a while longer, for the current was indeed not very strong, and the river was actually shallower than Pippin had first expected.  He was very close to the center of the river before his feet no longer touched bottom and he was forced to start a lopsided swim, kicking with his feet and stroking forward with his free arm.  As for Legolas, the water was barely over his waist, and he seemed to be moving forward easily enough, if a bit slowly.

Pippin’s eyes remained glued to the opposite bank, a mix of determination and adrenaline helping him fight off the numbing cold.  He breathed a sigh of relief when his feet once more touched the bottom, and he could walk the rest of the way forward to the rocky bank of the river.  Once he pulled himself completely free of the cold clutches of the water, he had to fight off a desire to sink to the ground and allow his weary body rest.  They were too close to their goal, and he would not allow them to stop until he felt the fresh air of freedom.  

Surging forward once more and half dragging Legolas behind him, Pippin made his way toward where he had imagined seeing the pinprick of light.  The blackness of the cave soon surrounded them, the light of the torch lost behind, and Pippin had to slow his pace, careful not to trip and bring both he and Legolas down to the floor.  He was not sure he would be able to rise if that were to happen.   

He might have lost hope within the black expanse of the tunnel if not for the softly intensifying smell of fresh air, and the gentle breeze that continued to wrap about him.  Slowly, he found that he could make out different shapes within the tunnel before him as the blackness seemed to be replaced with a soft light.  The further he went, the brighter the light became, and with a small cry of triumph, Pippin and Legolas rounded a final bend in the tunnel and stepped forward, out of the cave and into the starlit night.  The moon hung low and heavy within the night sky, casting a bright glow upon Pippin’s face and reflecting off the slow flow of tears down his cheeks.

 

******

Malek was not happy.  A fact that caused all the orcs in his near vicinity to shy away fearfully if he even glanced in their direction.  The orc army was tramping their way back to the cave, and it seemed that all knew of the displeasure of their master, for everything was silent but for the heavy tramp of feet.

Things had not gone as anticipated at the city this night, and Malek’s eyes flashed dangerously as he thought back over the battle.  Tonight was to have been his night of victory.  The night he took Calembel, crushing her army and capturing the members of the so-called ‘fellowship.’  He had had everything planned so perfectly, only to have it thrown back into his face!

The city had obviously received reinforcements, and Malek’s army had been continually thrown back until the coming dawn had driven them to retreat.  Malek’s plans had failed, and that was enough to throw the creature into a fit of rage.

He had no doubt that he would eventually be able to take the city.  He had the advantage of numbers, and could take casualties without a second thought, while the defenders grew more desperate with each loss to their number.  It was not the possibility of defeat that angered him, but the fact that he no longer seemed to be completely in control of this game he had started.

He decided that in the future, he would just have to take a more active role in the battle.  Until now, he had been content to mostly watch and gloat; yet the defenders of Calembel were proving to be a more difficult adversary than he had planned.  Soon they would know Malek’s rage, and they would hide in terror of him.  He would take the ‘fellowship’ and have his fun with them, killing them one by one, and crushing the hopes of their people.   With them out of his way, all of Middle Earth would lie open to his taking.  He would defeat the nations one at a time, feasting upon their people and growing stronger and stronger until nothing could stop him.  He would become invincible both night and day, and the lands would bow in terror of him.

The anger in Malek’s eyes slowly diminished, replaced by an evil smile as the creature pictured his victory over Middle Earth.  The orcs nearest him sighed in relief, though they still kept a wary distance from him.

Sensing the close approach of dawn, Malek left the orc army to fend for themselves and raced on ahead.  He was still angry, desperately needing something to vent his frustration on, and he had the perfect idea.  Torturing others had always had a calming effect upon him, and he looked forward to the fun he would have with his prey.

Slipping silently into the cave he had chosen as his lair, he passed soundlessly through the twisting corridors, his eyes glowing slightly with anticipation.  He entered the main cave, his eyes immediately flying to his prisoners...at least, to where his prisoners should have been.  He stopped cold, his eyes taking in the scene before him with quickly growing rage.

Three orcs lay dead within the large cavern, their black blood forming dark pools, their eyes staring sightlessly upward.  A fourth orc stood nervously beside a tunnel entrance on the other side of the cavern, his back turned to Malek as he peered into the dark hole. There was no sign of the other eight he had left behind to guard the prisoners.

Malek sprang across the cavern, his movements so silent that the orc did not know of his presence until Malek grabbed the creature’s shoulder and flung him about to face him.  

“What happened,” he hissed. “Where are the prisoners?”

The orc let out a high-pitched wail, falling back to the floor and covering his head with his hands as if expecting Malek to strike him at any moment.  “Please, my lord,” he cried! “It was not my fault!”

Malek stared down at the orc coldly, causing the creature to whimper pitifully.  “Where are they?” he repeated softly, his voice deceptively calm.

The orc’s eyes were filled with terror, yet he knew better than to hesitate in answering.  “They escaped, my lord,” he whispered softly.

Malek reached down and seized the creature, hauling him to his feet, his claws digging deep into the orc’s flesh.  “How?” he demanded, his face a mere inch from the terrified orc.

“It was Fletwit’s idea, my lord,” the creature howled, struggling to break free from Malek’s painful grasp.  “He said that they were asleep.  He said it was safe for us to go out and hunt something to eat.  It was all Fletwit’s plan.  I didn’t want to go along with it, but he made me, my lord, he made me!”

Malek regarded the pitiful creature for a second before casually tossing him backward.  The force of his throw sent the creature flying, violently crashing against the stone wall with a bone-snapping crunch.  Slowly, the orc slid to the floor, leaving behind a black trail of blood to mar the stone wall, his eyes sightless and his head tilted at an impossible angle.

Malek, however, had already gone.  Leaving the cavern, he raced back down the tunnel; reaching the entrance just as the first of his orc captains began climbing the steep hill leading up to the lair.

The orc army stopped at the sight of Malek, and one of the captains visibly flinched as he watched his master approach him.

“The prisoners have escaped,” Malek stated without preamble.  “Take a company of orcs and find them.  They went through one of the eastern tunnels, so concentrate your search there.”

The orc captain bowed low, unable to meet Malek’s stormy eyes.  “When you find them,” Malek continued, “bring the elf back to me, for I have not yet finished with my plans for him.  You may kill the little one, but bring his body back as well.  Perhaps we shall send it as a gift to our friends back within the city.”

A flicker of evil laughter ran through the nearest rank of orcs, and Malek smiled himself at the thought.  “Go quickly,” he ordered.  “They cannot have gotten far.  Not with the elf slowing them down!”

“We will find them, master,” the orc captain boasted loudly, bowing before Malek once again.

“You had better,” Malek replied softly, “or you shall suffer their fate instead.  Now go!”


	23. Knight of Gondor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Fellowship is reuniting, but may face a new threat that is hunting them all.

Frodo was exhausted - physically, mentally, and emotionally.  His injured leg ached furiously, his head was pounding, his stomach turning at the bloody scene around him, and he had decided that if Sam told him he looked pale and should sit down one more time, he would hit him!  All in all, he was not in the best of moods.

He stood atop the high wall of Calembel, watching the first dim rays of dawn light up the horizon, and wishing for nothing more than a nice quiet place to curl up and sleep for a week.  However, he knew that even should he be given an opportunity to rest, which was unlikely, he would not be able to sleep.  His mind was too troubled by grief and despair.  It seemed to him that a blackness had settled over his thoughts, and try as he might, he could not shake it.  He yearned for the simple life he had once known within the Shire, when his only worries had been the Sackville Bagginses.  He could not believe that there had once been a time when he had longed for adventure.  Now, all he wanted was his life to return to normal.  To be a simple hobbit once more. 

_‘Is that possible?  Can things ever be normal again?’_ The questions of his mind haunted him.  Somehow, he doubted it.  Things never _would_ be the same for him again, for he himself had changed.

A gentle hand resting on his shoulder caused Frodo to glance up into the worried eyes of Gandalf.  The wizard looked a sight, his normally clean white robes stained and blood splattered, his long hair tangled and ratted.  Frodo also thought he looked tired, yet it almost did not seem possible.  The wizard was always strong and unshakable, giving hope where all hope had failed.

“Are you alright, Frodo?” Gandalf asked quietly, his voice toned low for Frodo’s ears only.

Frodo attempted a reassuring smile.  “I am fine, Gandalf,” he whispered back, “I am just thinking, that’s all.”

“Ahh, a dangerous pastime for hobbits, as I have learned,” Gandalf replied, his small smile doing nothing to hide the worry in his eyes.  “Any thoughts you would care to share with an old friend?  Perhaps it would help lighten the burden you seem to carry so heavy upon your shoulders.”

Frodo hesitated, glancing away from Gandalf and shrugging his shoulders slightly.  “I was just thinking of home,” he replied at last, unable to hide the wistfulness in his voice.

Gandalf nodded understandingly.  “Perhaps wishing you were there, instead of here?” he asked quietly.

“Wishing we were all there,” Frodo replied tiredly.  “Me, Sam, Merry,…Pippin.”  The last was said in a near whisper, and Frodo had to fight back a tight knot forming in his throat.  “I wish Aragorn and Arwen were happily married and safe within Gondor.  I wish Gimli was busy working within his mountain; Legolas safely relaxing in the forest he so loves, and you…”  Frodo trailed off for a moment, glancing back up at Gandalf.  “And I wish you were wherever your heart desires to be!  An awful lot of wishing, yet it does not change a thing.  We are still here.”

Gandalf’s eyes were filled with sadness as he looked down at Frodo, and the hobbit found himself once more glancing away, unable to meet the troubled depths of the wizard’s gaze.

“Things will never be the same again, will they, Gandalf?”  It was not really a question, but a statement, and Frodo felt the wizard’s hand tighten on his shoulder.

 “My dear hobbit,” the wizard murmured sadly, “You have been through much, suffered much, and still suffer.  If it were in my power, I would change that.”

Frodo shook his head slowly  “It is not I that suffers,” he said quietly, unable to contain his own sadness.  “Pippin, Legolas, Gimli, Merry; they are the ones who truly suffer.  My pain is merely for them, and is only a shadow of what they must feel.”

“The last few days have been hard on all,” Gandalf murmured, no longer looking at Frodo, but gazing away toward the mountains.

Frodo did not reply, but also turned his gaze from the wall, looking to the east where the sun was just peeking its bright face over the horizon.  A cluster of clouds hung close to the earth, capturing the sun’s light and reflecting it in a myriad of bright colors that contrasted sharply with Frodo’s dark thoughts.  All night and into the morning he had been plagued with thoughts of Legolas and Pippin.  Like the others, he found it hard to entertain even the briefest thought that his friends could possibly, even likely, be dead.  Yet he knew that he had to accept, or at least consider this possibility if he was to be any help to Merry should it prove to be true.  He had to prepare himself for the worst, no matter how it hurt!

“It’s beautiful, isn’t it, master Frodo.” 

Frodo gave a slight start at the voice beside him, turning to find Sam staring at the rising sun, his face bathed in golden light.

“Aye Sam, it’s beautiful,” Frodo replied sadly.  “Yet I cannot help think that such beauty does not belong here, at such a time as this, surrounded by nothing but death and destruction.

“Nay, master Frodo,” Sam answered immediately, turning from the sunrise and studying him.  “I think it belongs here just fine!  It shows that no matter how long or dark the night, there is always a sunrise waiting at the end.  No night lasts forever, and darkness can never defeat the light of a new day!”  

There was a vehemence to Sam’s words that caused Frodo to stare at him in surprise.  Finally, he shook his head, letting out a wry laugh.  “You should have been a philosopher, Sam, not a gardener.”

It was Sam’s turn to shake his head.  “Aye, but master Frodo, gardeners _are_ philosophers.  We argue our points to our plants all the time, and we never have to worry about them arguing back!”

Sam’s words brought a small smile to Frodo’s face, as indeed, Sam had intended them to.  Frodo was just opening his mouth to reply to his friend, when another voice spoke up quietly from behind them.

“I wonder if Pippin is watching the sunrise.”

Frodo turned, his smile fading and his heart sinking as he took in Merry.  The hobbit looked a wreck, his face strained with dark circles beneath his eyes.  He too was staring toward the rising sun, his expression distant and his voice sounding almost as if he was in some sort of trance.

“It has all his favorite colors in it,” Merry continued quietly, still not looking at the others, his voice containing a hopeless note.  “I wonder if he can see it.”

“Maybe he can, Merry,” Sam said quietly, eyeing his friend sadly. “Maybe he can.”

Frodo stepped closer to Merry, reaching out and gently touching the younger hobbit’s arm, offering silent support.  After what seemed like ages, Merry at last seemed to come out of his trance, blinking his eyes and returning to the present.  He raised his head, glancing toward Gandalf.

“Shouldn’t we go and find the others now?” he asked somewhat shakily.  “I want to begin our search as soon as possible.”

Gandalf nodded.  “Here comes Aragorn now.”

Frodo turned just as Aragorn mounted the wall and began making his way toward them.  The ranger looked as tired as Frodo felt, his blood stained armor contrasting sharply with his pale features, his long brown hair falling about his haggard and worn face.  Faramir walked beside the king, a slight limp marring his usual graceful strides.

When the two warriors reached them, Aragorn immediately ran his eyes over his companions, obviously checking for injuries.  Frodo imagined that his gaze rested just a little longer upon him and Merry, before passing on.

“Is all well here?” Aragorn asked quietly, once more perusing the small company.

“As well as can be expected,” Gandalf replied slowly.  “None here are hurt, though we all are weary.”

Frodo was somewhat surprised that Gandalf had included himself in the confession of weariness, and he began to study the wizard closely.  However, he was soon distracted from his task when Aragorn addressed him.

“And what of you, Frodo?  Are you all right?”  his friend asked softly.

Frodo was surprised and slightly disgruntled at being picked out by the ex-ranger, but before he could think of a proper reply, Sam spoke for him.

“If you ask me, he is far too pale, and I think he should sit down before he falls over!”

Frodo turned a withering glare on his friend.  “He didn’t ask you, Sam, and I am _not_ going to fall over!”  Frodo was growing embarrassed by Aragorn’s continued perusal.

“I think you are right, Sam,” the ranger finally spoke, “he does look pale.  Perhaps you should sit down and rest for a while.” The last was spoken to Frodo, who immediately began shaking his head.

“I am no more pale than you, Aragorn,” he stated firmly, dividing a glare between the king and Sam, “And I will sit down and rest just as soon as you do.”

Aragorn looked surprised at the response, a slight smile lightening his features.  He looked as if he was about to argue, when Merry broke in.

“Where is Gimli,” the hobbit asked impatiently, his eyes scanning the wall top for any sign of the dwarf.

Aragorn immediately sobered, his face growing serious and worn once more.  “He departed from me shortly after the orc’s retreat,” he told them all quietly, his eyes sad.  “He did not tell me where he was going, and I did not ask.”

Gandalf nodded in understanding to this news, but Merry did not seem to like what he had heard at all.

“What if he has left without us,” he cried, looking around desperately.  “Perhaps he grew tired of waiting, and now has gone and left us behind!”

“Peace, Merry,” Aragorn said gently, laying a hand upon the distraught hobbit’s shoulder.  “Gimli knows that we have promised to help aid him in his search.  He would not have left without us.  I believe he just needs a moment alone.”

_‘And who can blame him,’_ Frodo thought wearily.  _‘Especially after the cruel game Malek played with us this morning.’_   He could still picture the form of Legolas, or Malek disguised as Legolas, standing upon the field.  Even knowing it for the trick it was, he had been unable to quench the horror at the sight before him.  He wondered how much worse Gimli must have been affected.

“I am sure that he will return shortly,” Aragorn was telling Merry, his hand still resting on the hobbit’s shoulder.  

Merry nodded glumly, his eyes cast to the ground.  An awkward silence fell then, as each were lost in their own thoughts.  At last, Aragorn spoke to Gandalf.

“I have sent for our horses to be prepared for us.  I think it best if we ride as far as we can, before continuing on foot.  I will take us to Malek’s lair, and we can begin our search from there.  I expect we will be gone for most of the day.” This last sentence was spoken to Faramir, and Aragorn’s eyes were apologetic.

Faramir shrugged his shoulders casually.  “Have no fear for the city during your absence, my lord.  I will see that everything is done to prepare for Malek’s next attack.”

Aragorn smiled.  “I do not fear for the city, but see that you get some rest as well as getting that leg looked at.”

“It is only a scratch, my lord,” Faramir replied dismissively, “but I will do as you say.”

Aragorn nodded, satisfied, then turned back to Gandalf.  “Shall we go to the stables and wait for Gimli there?”

The wizard nodded slowly, and after Faramir bid them all farewell and good luck, they left the wall and began making their way into the city.  When they had reached the stables housing the horses and the hobbit’s ponies, they found grooms already saddling their mounts.  Merry moved away from the others, retreating under the stables’ high awning where he could watch the entrance for Gimli while remaining sheltered from the morning sun’s glare.  Aragorn and Sam immediately moved to the horses, Sam already holding a one sided conversation with his pony. Aragorn dismissed the groom saddling Roheryn and took over the job himself.  Gandalf, not surprisingly, seemed to have disappeared.

Frodo sighed, glancing around him before starting to pace up and down the walkway in front of the stables.  Each stall door had a top that opened out to the courtyard, and Frodo’s pacing soon caused several large heads to poke out through the openings, big eyes regarding him with a mix of curiosity and annoyance.  Frodo paused his pacing to pat the noses of several of the more friendly looking beasts, feeling their hot breath wash over him as they snuffled around for any snacks he might have brought them.  A familiar whinny caused him to turn just as a fiery head poked from a stall a few yards away.

“Hello, Shandarell,” he called out softly, causing the horse to turn and regard him with large brown eyes.  Shandarell stamped his foot loudly, before turning away and eying the courtyard before him.  It seemed almost to Frodo as if the horse was searching for something, and he shook his head sadly as Shandarell let out another loud whinny.  “He is not here, boy,” he stated quietly.  Shandarell flicked an ear in his direction, but did not turn away from his perusal of the courtyard.  After several minutes, he let out what sounded like an indignant snort, disappearing back into his stall, more snorts and a couple of loud bangs drifting from the opening.

Frodo could not help but smile.  “Throwing a temper tantrum, are we?” he muttered softly.  “I shall have to tell Legolas that he needs to start teaching you some manners.”  He had said the words before thinking, and he immediately winced, turning from the stalls and making his way toward where the grooms had finished preparing the horses. 

Sam glanced at him, opening his mouth to speak, but at that moment, Gimli strode through the gate into the stable courtyard.  Merry leapt to his feet, his face shining with relief, and Frodo, Sam, and Aragorn all turned to greet their friend.  All froze, however, when they saw what the dwarf was carrying.

“Legolas’ bow,” Frodo heard Aragorn whisper hoarsely, the words almost lost beneath the heavy pounding of his heart.  All stared, as Gimli made his way toward them, the bow gripped tightly before him, his face an unreadable mask.

“Are we ready to go?” he asked simply upon reaching them, and Aragorn nodded slowly.

“We have been waiting for you,” he replied quietly, his eyes still locked upon the weapon held in the dwarf’s grip.  “Gimli…,” he began, then trailed off, obviously having trouble with what he wanted to say.

Gimli met his eyes, shaking his head ever so slightly.  “He needs me, Aragorn,” the dwarf whispered, his face a mask of determination and his voice so low that Frodo had to strain to hear him.  “Already I have made him wait too long.”

Aragorn studied his friend for a few seconds before once more nodding slowly.  “Everything is prepared, and we are ready to move out.”

“Good,” Gimli said loudly, brushing past Aragorn and sending a glare over the horses.  “Now, which one of these horrible beasts am I to ride.  As long as it has a smoother gait than that fiery beast Legolas rides, then I shall be happy.”

Aragorn shook his head slightly, a small smile tugging at his lips despite the pain evident in his eyes.  “I have rarely seen a horse with a smoother gait than Shandarell, and none of those are here now.  I am afraid you will have to settle with Roheryn and I.”

Gimli merely grunted in response, moving to the large horse and eyeing him up and down.  Aragorn walked over and helped the dwarf mount before swinging into the saddle in front of him.  The three hobbits moved to their own ponies, pulling themselves into their saddles just as Gandalf reappeared from one of the large barns.  

Quickly mounting, the wizard ran a critical eye over all of them, briefly resting on Gimli and the bow he still carried before him. His dark eyes flickered slightly, but otherwise there was no response.  “We are ready then?” the wizard asked. Without waiting for a response, he swung his horse around and urged him forward.

The others followed silently, all thinking the same thoughts as they started out on a mission all prayed would be successful.

 

********

Pippin was in trouble, and the small part of him that realized this dangerous fact cried out in warning.  He was slowly loosing his battle against the cold taking over his body, and he was finding it harder and harder to continue on.  He stumbled forward, surrounded by cold and darkness, hardly aware of where he was going and unaware that his steps grew slower with each passing minute.  Complete numbness was settling over body and brain, and if something didn’t happen soon to waken him from his stupor, both he and Legolas would most likely die alone and forgotten within the mountains.  The night sky stared down at them uncaringly, the stars giving little light and no warmth to aide the weary travelers beneath them.

It seemed like ages ago that he and Legolas had stumbled free of Malek’s cave, stopping only long enough to catch their breath before stumbling forward once more.  Then, the knowledge that orcs would soon be swarming the mountains in search of them had urged him on.  He had not known which way Calembel lay, so he had merely randomly picked a direction, content that it led away from the horrible cave they had been imprisoned in and praying it would lead in the basic direction of the city.  His adrenaline and fear had served to warm him and give him energy, yet after nearly an hour had passed with no sight or sound of orcs, Pippin had begun to relax.  This had been his downfall.  The night had suddenly become ten times colder, and weariness had begun to drag at him.

Now, he found it more and more difficult to fight off the cold and exhaustion claiming his body, and at last he gave up the battle completely, falling to his knees upon the hard ground, and barely aware of Legolas collapsing behind him.  He released Legolas, wrapping his arms around his body in a futile attempt to ward off the chills that swept through him.  A large boulder lay nearby and Pippin slumped against it, closing his eyes and attempting to stop the slow flow of tears.

_‘I can’t go any further,’_ he thought numbly, the tears flowing even faster.  _‘I am so tired and cold and hungry.  I think I will just rest here for a moment.’_

A small voice within his mind began to desperately argue against the idea. _No!  Get up, get moving!  You stop now, and you will never go on.  Both you and Legolas will die here in this wilderness!_

Pippin sobbed at the thought, but he was simply unable to get his rebellious body to move.  He had passed his endurance, and there was nothing he could do.

“I’m sorry, Legolas,” he whispered brokenly.  “I’m so sorry, but I just can’t go on.”  He opened his eyes and looked toward the shadowy figure of the elf, his heart skipping a beat when he caught sight of the eastern sky.  The heavens were alive with the light of dawn, the first morning rays reflected from the clouds and sending out a myriad of color that took his breath away.  Even as he watched, the golden orb lifted from its bed upon the horizon, rising slowly to cast the earth in its light and warmth.  

Pippin closed his eyes again, breathing deeply as the sun’s golden rays came to dance upon his face with a warm and gentle touch.  Vaguely he realized from the sun’s position that he had been heading steadily southeast for the last hour, which meant that with a little adjustment to the south, he would be heading directly for Calembel.  The city was probably no more than three perhaps four hours steady walking from where he now lay.

_Still thinking of giving up?_ The small voice was back.  _You are so close, it would be a shame for you to have come so far only to quit now.  Come on, get up!_

“I don’t think I can,” Pippin sobbed out loud, his voice sounding weak and desperate in the early morning stillness.

_Fine, sit there and die.  Just realize that you are killing not only yourself, but Legolas as well.  That is, if the orcs don’t find you first!  I wonder what Merry and the rest of your friends would think if they found out you were so close and gave up!_

This last was more than Pippin could bear, and with a small shout of frustration, he pushed himself up from the ground, wobbling slightly as dizziness caused the world to sway before him.  He used the large boulder to steady himself as he waited for the dizziness to pass, then turned to Legolas.

It took him several attempts to get the elf on his feet, and Pippin was nearing despair once more before Legolas at last rose from the ground.  Pippin was unsure of how much longer his friend could go on; how much longer he could go on for that matter, but he was determined to get as far as he could.  

Grasping the elf’s arm tightly, he began stumbling forward once more, changing his direction slightly so that he was heading almost directly south.  He knew that once he worked his way free of the mountains, the going would be easier for both him and Legolas, and the rising sun would serve to dry their wet clothes and warm their bodies.

He had gone about a mile before his senses suddenly became aware of an unnatural silence surrounding them.  He froze, listening intently, then suddenly dived to the side, ducking behind a large thicket and pulling Legolas after him.  He was not a moment too soon, for a large group of orcs suddenly appeared around a bend in the path, moving silently and quickly toward their hiding place.

Pippin held his breath, trying desperately to still the mad beating of his heart.  His eyes fell with horror on a single print pressed firmly into a patch of dirt and unmistakably pointing directly toward where they crouched hidden.  He had to fight off a sudden desire to break free and run, knowing that they would not stand a chance against such a large group of orcs.  If they saw the print…

To Pippin’s dismay, the orcs slowed, then stopped not ten feet in front of the thicket where they hid, a large orc boot coming to rest right beside the print left in the dirt.  Pippin closed his eyes, expecting any minute to hear a shout of discovery, followed by a search that would unavoidably end in their capture.

“Are you sure we’re looking in the right direction, Sharbag,” Pippin heard one of the orcs growl.

“This is the way back to the city, aint it!” The one called Sharbag snapped back.  “They’ll be trying to get back to their friends, and this is the way they have to come!”

“Well, how come we haven’t seen any sign of them?  Not a single print!  I still think we’re looking in the wrong place!”

“Just shut your face and leave the thinking to me, Sluggut.  Maybe if you quit your whining and started looking you would find something!”

“Well, we had better find them soon, cause I am getting tired of wandering around under this blasted sun!”   A new voice spoke up, but was quickly silenced by Sharbag.

“Shut up, Fletwit!  We wouldn’t be wandering these mountains if you hadn’t lost the prisoners in the first place!”

Fletwit let out what sounded like a whimper.  “How was I to know that the hobbit wasn’t really sleeping?  When I get a hold of him, I’m going to make him dance at the end of my knife before I slit his scrawny throat.”

“We have to find them first, now don’t we!  And if we don’t, it is you, Fletwit, that the master is going to eat alive!” Another pitiful whimper followed this statement.  “And just remember, we are supposed to bring the elf back alive!  The master has some sort of plan for him!”

With this last statement, the group of orcs began to move again, trudging by barely five feet in front of the thicket!  Pippin’s vision was beginning to blur with the effort of holding his breath, and he felt sure that the wild pounding of his heart would alert the orcs to their presence.  

Pippin remained crouched behind the thicket for several minutes after the last orc had disappeared from view, listening intently for any sound that would indicate their return.  When he was at last certain that they were indeed gone, he leapt to his feet, pulling Legolas after him.  It seemed as if the orcs orders were not to capture him, but to kill him and return Legolas to Malek to finish whatever he had started with the elf.  Pippin was not about to let that happen!  He liked being alive way too much!

With desperation fueling him on, Pippin hurried forward once more, still moving south, but at an angle away from the orc party.  Legolas followed silently after, his movements still frustratingly slow.  

Pippin now kept his senses carefully alert in case they should run into any more orc parties, but relief soon swelled within him as he realized they were nearing the edge of the mountains.  A bit further, and they would reach the foothills, and Calembel lay only shortly beyond that.

“A few more hours, Legolas,” Pippin gasped quietly, “and we will be home!  Aragorn can take care of you, and we will have a nice large fire to warm ourselves and all the food we can eat!”  The thought of warmth and food caused him to groan softly and pick up the pace as much as Legolas would allow.  The morning sun was beginning to dry their sodden clothes, yet Pippin was still chilled, and Legolas’ arm was deathly cold beneath his grip.

So it was, that as the sun was still hanging near the horizon, Pippin and Legolas passed from the mountains into the foothills.  Much of their path now lay out in the open, yet free from the oppressive slopes of the mountains, Pippin found himself relaxing once more.  He doubted the orcs would have ventured this far away from their caverns, and even if they had, they would be as visible out in the open as he and Legolas were.  As long as he remained alert and watchful, things would be just fine.

They were passing through a wooded glade at the base of two large hills, when suddenly, without warning, Legolas collapsed, carrying Pippin to the ground with him. 

 Pippin cried out as he landed heavily on top of the elf.  He immediately rolled to the side, his eyes widening with dismay as he looked down at Legolas.  His friend’s eyes were closed, his face deathly pale, and for a horrible second, Pippin thought for sure that he was dead.  With a cry, he fell beside the elf, reaching out with trembling fingers and searching for a pulse.  He let out a ragged sob of relief when he found it, the beat fast and erratic beneath his fingers.

“Legolas,” he called out softly, tapping the elf’s cheek gently with his hand.  There was no response, not even a flutter of his eyelashes, and Pippin sat back, knowing there was no use trying to rouse his friend.  It was obvious that Legolas had gone as far as he was able.  

Pippin closed his eyes tightly, frustration causing him to clench his hands at his sides.  Legolas needed help, and soon, or he would die and Pippin would never forgive himself.  The only problem was, help now lay completely out of reach.  There was no way Pippin could carry Legolas, and dragging him was not an option.  He could barely carry his own weight.

_‘I’ll have to leave him here, and go and get some help.”_ The thought had no sooner entered his mind, then Pippin shied away from it.  He did not like the idea of leaving Legolas alone.  There were simply too many things that could go wrong!

_‘But what other choice have I?  If I stay here with him, I might be able to protect him from orcs, but he will still die from his injuries.’_ Indecision gripped at Pippin, though he already knew what he had to do.  

Leaning forward, he gently brushed a stray strand of golden hair from Legolas’ face.  “Legolas, I am going to get help.  I’ll be back, I promise!” he whispered softly, his heart wrenching at the decision.  He doubted Legolas could hear him, but saying the words out loud somehow made him feel slightly better.  

Unclasping his cloak, he gently laid the garment over Legolas’ prone form before rising and slowly backing away.  Each step away from his friend was torture, but with a final look, Pippin turned and began climbing the large hill before him.  His steps were slow at first, but as desperation took hold of him, he quickened his pace until he was half jogging, half running up the steep hill.  

Once he reached the top, he glanced around hopefully for a sign of the city, sighing when all he saw were more hills stretching away before him.  Gritting his teeth, he pushed forward once more, jogging down one hill and up the next, each time stopping to look for the city.  

After what seemed like hours of this, Pippin was beginning to grow desperate.  He began to think that he might have somehow passed up the city, and with that thought the first flames of panic arose within him.  Time was running out for Legolas, and if he didn’t find the city soon…

Pippin never finished the thought, for suddenly he gained the crest of a tall hill, and the sight below him caused him to gasp in excitement.  It was not the city, but it was the next best thing; horsemen.  The riders were moving swiftly across the small valley at the base of the hill, and with a shout, Pippin began racing down the hill, waving his arms frantically in an attempt to gain the horsemen’s attention.

 

*********

 

Aragorn almost did not hear Pippin’s frantic calls over the loud pounding of the horse’s hooves.  It was pure luck, and perhaps the strange alerting of a sixth sense, that caused him to turn suddenly in his saddle and glance to the side.  He pulled Roheryn to an abrupt stop, the hobbits’ ponies nearly crashing into him, as he stared in disbelief, thinking that his eyes were somehow deceiving him.  

Yet the small figure racing down the hill towards them did not disappear, and now with the horses stopped, his faint calls could be heard drifting upon the breeze.

Gandalf was about to ask Aragorn why he had stopped when he too heard the calls, as did the others.  All stared in shock for several seconds.  Not surprisingly, it was Merry who reacted first.

“Pippin!” the hobbit cried, digging his heels into his pony and leaping forward toward the small figure, which had now collapsed at the bottom of the hill.  Sam and Frodo were right behind him, and after exchanging surprised looks, Gandalf and Aragorn followed.

Pippin was numb with relief as he knelt upon the grass, weeping openly as he heard Merry repeatedly calling his name.  His friend’s pony was charging toward him, closely followed by the others, and Pippin merely knelt and waited for them, suddenly drained of every last ounce of energy he had left.

Merry did not even wait until his pony came to a complete stop before flinging himself from the saddle, collapsing before Pippin and pulling the exhausted hobbit into his arms.  The two friends knelt there, tightly holding on to each other and weeping unashamedly.  Sam and Frodo stood silently to the side, tears streaming down their own faces as they watched the reunion between the two friends.  

“Oh, Pippin,” Merry sobbed, “I thought you were dead!  I thought I would never see you again!”

Pippin did not respond except to cling to his friend even more fiercely, watching through a veil of tears as Aragorn, Gimli, and Gandalf dismounted a few paces off.  The ex-ranger approached the two friends slowly, dropping to his knees beside them and taking in Pippin’s rumpled, wet clothes and bloody cheek.

“Well met, Pippin,” he said softly, reaching out and gently brushing the injured cheek.  “I will admit we were all despairing of ever seeing you again.”

Merry at last released Pippin, allowing the hobbit to sit back and run a teary eye over all his companions.  Pippin attempted a small smile, his overwhelming relief causing his exhaustion to set in.  “What are you all doing here?” he asked softly, realizing it wasn’t the brightest question he could ask, but thinking of nothing else to say.

“We were looking for you, Pip,” Sam explained slowly.  “You and Legolas!  We never expected you would just pop up and…”

“Legolas,” Pippin interrupted, sitting bolt upright, dismayed that he had forgotten about his friend, even for a moment.

Aragorn saw the dismay on the young hobbit’s face, and shook his head sadly, thinking it was caused by the news that Legolas was not with them.  “I am afraid Legolas is also missing, Pippin,” he stated quietly, his eyes flickering to where Gimli stood with bowed head.

“No!”  Pippin shouted, surprising them all.  “He’s not missing!  He was captured along with me, and we were both taken to Malek!”

Aragorn’s heart skipped a beat at the news that Legolas had indeed survived the fall from the cliff, but his relief was quickly replaced by horror as the realization of Pippin’s words hit him.  “Then Malek has him,” he whispered softly, horrified at the thought.

“No!”  Pippin exclaimed again, shaking his head fiercely.  “He’s here!  Well, not here.  I had to leave him about a mile back.  He couldn’t go any further, and I thought I would go and get some help.  I didn’t want to leave him, but…”

Pippin was suddenly cut off as Gimli pushed forward, kneeling before him and reaching out to grip his shoulder painfully.  “Are you saying that both you and Legolas escaped from Malek?” the dwarf asked intently, his voice a hoarse whisper.

Pippin nodded, then turned to Aragorn.  “We have to go to him, and fast.  He is hurt badly.  Malek and his orcs, they…” he trailed off, unable to complete his sentence as new tears filled his eyes.

Aragorn looked stunned, but he reached down and gently pulled Pippin to his feet.  “Take us to him,” he ordered softly.

 

*******

 

Gimli had never before experienced the wave of emotions that now threatened to overwhelm him as Pippin led them to where he had left Legolas.  Though he had refused to admit it, even to himself, he had thought his friend to be dead, and now that he found out otherwise…  Relieved did not even begin to describe his feelings at the moment.  For the first time, he was immensely relieved that they had the horses, for the beasts would bring him to his goal much faster than walking.

It seemed like only seconds, instead of minutes, had passed before Pippin directed them into a small wooded glade between two tall hills.  As soon as he caught sight of Legolas lying upon the ground, Gimli slipped from the saddle, not waiting for assistance in his rush to reach his best friend.  He ran to Legolas’ side, dropping to his knees and worriedly gazing over the elf’s prone form.  When he reached out and gently grasped Legolas’ hand, he shuddered at the cold and clammy feel of his friend’s skin.

Aragorn knelt on the other side of Legolas, Gandalf beside him.  He quickly examined the elf, feeling his unnaturally cold skin and the dampness of the cloak that covered him.  He felt Legolas’ forehead, then took his pulse, aware of the hobbits standing worriedly behind him.  Removing the cloak, he inspected the bruised and bloody skin of the elf’s chest, frowning at the deep scratches left by Malek’s claws.  The wounds were red and inflamed, the skin next to them the only warm spot on Legolas’ body.

Gimli watched Aragorn closely, studying the man for any clue as to the extent of his friend’s injuries.  At last, the ex-ranger lifted his head from his inspection.

“We have to get him to the city,” Aragorn stated firmly.  He reached forward with the intention of lifting Legolas from the ground, when a shout of warning caused him to freeze and turn a questioning look on Pippin.

“His back,” Pippin explained softly.

Aragorn frowned, turning back to Legolas and gently shifting the elf to his side.  A low growl escaped from Gimli’s lips as he took in his friend’s torn and bloody back, and he clenched his fist in rage at the thought of the obvious torment Legolas had gone through.  

Aragorn’s face was grim as he lifted the elf as gently as he could, being careful to position his arms where they would not aggravate Legolas’ injuries.  He strode over to Roheryn, and Gandalf helped him set Legolas before him in the saddle.  As soon as the elf was positioned as comfortably as possible, Aragorn kicked Roheryn into a gallop, knowing the others would catch up.  He had to get Legolas back to the city, and fast, for he could sense his friend was fading quickly.

Gimli watched Aragorn ride away, his hand gripping the haft of his axe in a death grip, his eyes tormented.  Gandalf gently laid a hand upon the dwarf’s shoulder.

“He will be fine, Gimli,” the wizard spoke softly.  “He has not survived all this way to die now.”

Gimli nodded slowly, watching as Roheryn disappeared over the rise.  “Malek shall pay for what he has done to him,” Gimli muttered softly.  “This I promise, I will not rest until Malek is dead!”

 

*******

Arwen gently brushed her hand across Legolas’ brow, forcing her movements steady and fighting down the bile that rose in her throat.  Each touch to Legolas sent a wave of darkness and evil radiating through her, threatening to make her sick.

“There is a shadow over him,” she whispered softly, “A darkness deeper than any of his wounds.”

“I sense it, also,” Aragorn murmured from where he stood on the other side of the bed, “though it seems to affect you more than me.”

“You see these scratches?” Arwen asked, running her hand lightly over the markings on Legolas’ chest.  “The darkness seems to come from here.”

Aragorn nodded slowly.  “I am not sure how to tend this,” he admitted softly.  “Any ideas?”

Arwen shook her head.  “First, we must learn what happened to him.  We must know what caused these markings. Perhaps then we will get a clue as to how to treat them.”

“The others should be returning soon,” Aragorn replied quietly.  “Only Pippin can tell us exactly what happened.  In the mean time, we can only tend the wounds that we do see.”

Arwen sighed, reaching for a basin of water and a clean cloth.  “Aye, and these wounds are enough to worry me.  We must clean his back carefully, before infection sets in.”

Aragorn nodded, and the two set to work on their friend, cleaning and binding his wounds tightly.  They had nearly finished when the door opened and Gimli entered, followed closely by Gandalf and the hobbits.

“How is he?” Gimli asked worriedly, hurrying to the bedside and peering down at Legolas.

“His wounds are serious, but not life threatening,” Arwen replied gently.  “Yet there is something about his condition that bothers me, and will continue to until I learn more of what has happened to him.”  She glanced at Pippin then, her eyes gentle as she took in his exhausted state.  “Hello, Pippin,” she called softly, receiving a small blush and bow from the young hobbit.

“Pippin,” Aragorn called gently, moving over to the hobbit.  “I know that you are tired, and you shall receive rest soon, but first, we must know what has happened if we are to completely care for Legolas.”

Pippin nodded slowly, letting out a weary sigh.  “Where do you want me to start?” he asked tiredly.

“From the beginning,” Aragorn commanded, as he gently led Pippin toward the single chair in the room.  “Tell us everything from the moment Legolas and I left you to explore the cave.  Don’t leave _anything_ out, no matter how inconsequential it may seem to you.  I want to know _everything_.”

For the next hour, the company listened carefully to Pippin’s tale, Aragorn only interjecting occasionally when he felt the hobbit was being too vague or to clarify a certain fact.  When Pippin reached the part where the orcs had whipped Legolas, followed by Malek’s actions, Aragorn made him repeat it several times, his face thoughtful.

Gimli did not look thoughtful, he looked murderous, and Aragorn caught him muttering darkly beneath his breath, though he only caught ‘axe’ and ‘Malek’s head’ in the dwarf’s mumbling.

Pippin continued his story, relating his and Legolas’ near escape and how he had almost given up several times before spotting the others.  He did not seem to notice the growing surprise and respect upon his listeners’ faces, his eyes firmly cast down to his clenched hands, his voice low and ragged with the effort of reliving each moment of what was probably the worst day of his life.

When he had at last finished and the silence in the room had grown so great that he could not resist glancing up, he found Aragorn staring at him with a very strange expression upon his face.

“Pippin…” the Ranger began; but the hobbit cut him off.

“I’m sorry, Aragorn,” he whispered brokenly.  “I wish I had just acted sooner, instead of sitting and waiting for Malek to finish whatever it was he was doing to Legolas.  If he dies, it will be all my fault!  I should have…”

“Pippin!”  It was Aragorn’s turn to cut off the hobbit, his voice firm and strong.  He knelt down before Pippin, reaching out and resting his hands on the hobbit’s knees.  “You saved his life!” he whispered harshly, forcing the hobbit to meet his eyes.  “You continually risked your own safety for him, showing more courage and determination than many veteran warriors I have known.”

“But I almost gave up several times!” Pippin exclaimed, self-disgust evident in his voice.

“Yet you didn’t.”  Aragorn pointed out firmly.  “Despite being cold and tired, you kept going, and Legolas owes you his life for it!”

“I was frightened,” Pippin whispered softly, not understanding why Aragorn kept picturing him a hero.

“Courage is not the absence of fear, my dear hobbit, but the ability to continue on despite that fear!  You have shown great courage this day!”

Pippin stared into the dark eyes of Aragorn, his breath suddenly catching as he saw the sincere respect deep within their depths.  

“Do you remember what I told you the other day,” Aragorn asked softly, “about never having to prove yourself to me?”

Pippin nodded wordlessly, unable to tear his eyes from Aragorn’s.

“Well, that remains true, yet even if it wasn’t, you _have_ proven yourself ten times over this day!  I am proud to have you in my service.  You are a true knight of Gondor!”

Pippin continued to stare at Aragorn, tears filling his eyes.  It seemed as if he had been doing a lot of crying lately, and he struggled to keep his emotions in check.

“Don’t worry about Legolas, Pippin,” Arwen spoke quietly.  “We will care for him, and everything will be fine.”

Pippin nodded, swallowing hard as Aragorn rose and moved back to the bed.  Gimli replaced him, moving forward and gripping Pippin’s shoulder tightly, the gratitude and emotion in his eyes speaking more loudly than any words he might have spoken.  At the silent thanks, Pippin felt the tears at last spill over.

Arwen gently helped him up, leading him to a small room next to Legolas’ where she cleaned the scratches on his face before leaving and bidding him to rest.  

Merry, Frodo, and Sam had all followed him over, and they now stood around his bed, regarding him silently, a different expression on each face.  Pippin soon became uncomfortable under their scrutiny.  

At last, Frodo spoke.  “I’m proud of you, Pip,” he whispered quietly, “you’re a true hero.”

Pippin shook his head firmly.  “You weren’t there,” he whispered softly.  “We almost didn’t escape.”

“Ahh, but you did, and I’m glad your back!”  Merry exclaimed, reaching out and grabbing Pippin’s hand in his own.

Sam let out a small laugh.  “I sure would have liked to see Malek’s face when he realized you had escaped!”

“Not me!”  Pippin exclaimed.  “I have seen all I want of him, and I don’t think I would like to be anywhere near him when he is angry.  You can expect that his attacks will be all the more fierce from here on out.”

“It doesn’t matter, Pippin,” Merry stated firmly.  “We’re all together again, and that’s all that matters.  Together, we can handle anything Malek decides to throw our way!”

Pippin nodded, though he was secretly doubtful.

“Is there anything we can get you before we leave and let you rest?” Frodo asked.

Pippin’s eyes lit up at the question.  “Well,” he said slowly, “there is one thing…”

“Anything,” Sam offered boldly.

“Food,” Pippin whispered dreamily.  “Lots and lots of food!”


	24. Battles in the Dark

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Fellowship is reuniting, but may face a new threat that is hunting them all.

Everything was cold and dark.  He floated alone through a world of nothingness, where the only sensation was one of intense suffocation.  The darkness pressed in on him, filled him, until he was no more than a tiny particle within a massive river of black ice, the uncaring current sweeping him away to oblivion.  He did not fight against it.  He did not know how.  The blackness and cold was all he knew, all he would ever know, and he lay quiet and meek within its icy embrace.

All thoughts and memories of who and what he had once been were overcome by the cold, the shadow resting over him refusing to allow any link between mind and body.  Deep within the blanket of darkness, physical sensations were as lost to him as his mental sensations, stolen as surely as light and warmth.  There was nothing, and he was lost.

This was the world into which he had been banished.  A world devoid of any light or warmth, any life or hope.  For an elf, who so cherished these things, this world was a place of ultimate suffering and agony that went far beyond physical sensations.  A world in which any thought would freeze and then shatter into a million shards before the mind could grasp it.

He was completely unaware of anything outside of this darkness.  Unaware of his friends, who even now crowded close beside him, calling to him and urging him to fight against the black nothingness he was quickly becoming.  He was unaware of the gentle hands that touched him and cared for him, unaware even of the presence and voice of his deepest and dearest friend.  It was all lost to the blackness.

Yet slowly, very slowly, the darkness seemed to ease around him, its suffocating grip lessening a little.  This change was so minute that he barely noticed it, and even if he had, even if his mind had comprehended the meaning behind the sudden relief, the remaining darkness would have quickly flushed all thought away.  Yet a rift within the darkness had opened and could not be shut again.  The blackness continued to slowly loose its tight grip upon its captive, and as its embrace grew weaker, the first dim flickers of life reappeared.

Time flowed on, if there could be such a thing as time in this place, yet something was different.  The flicker of life within him was growing, ever so slowly, while the darkness retreated.  Pinpricks of thought began to return to him, just as the cool pinpricks of returning blood to an arm or leg that has fallen asleep.  The thoughts brought with them a gentle reminder of warmth and light, and he clung to them as a drowning man would a piece of driftwood.  The blackness, as if sensing the new spark of life within its prisoner, attempted to encompass him once more, closing in like a suffocating wave. 

He would have been overcome then, but for a single word that penetrated the blackness around him, echoing throughout his mind and bringing him a sudden surge of warmth and strength.  The word came to him as if through a great distance, seeming both strange and familiar to him.  He repeated it over and over within his mind, using it to fight off the darkness and finding a new strength within himself.

‘Legolas’ his mind screamed, and though he did not yet understand the significance of the word, he knew that it was the key to the battle he now fought.  The battle against the cold and dark.  The battle that would become one of the longest and hardest he would ever fight.

 

********

 

“Legolas,” Gimli called softly, reaching out and gently touching his friend’s shoulder.  “Legolas,” he repeated, searching desperately for some stir of life within the elf.  Behind him, Aragorn and Gandalf stood silently, watching in sympathy the dwarf’s continued efforts to rouse Legolas.  Gimli had been calling to his friend for the last five minutes and though he had yet to receive any response, he was determined not to give up.  Aragorn and Gandalf saw the efforts as futile, but neither said anything, realizing that Gimli’s actions were as much for the dwarf’s own sake as for Legolas’.

Arwen had just left with Pippin and the other hobbits, leaving Aragorn, Gimli, and Gandalf to think over the news the brave young hobbit had brought them.  The emotions of all the fellowship were mixed.  Joy and relief at the return of Legolas and Pippin were combined with worry, uncertainty, anger, and even a hint of desperation.  One thing they all knew for sure; something had to be done about Malek, and soon if the city was to have any hope of survival.

Several more minutes passed in silence but for Gimli’s soft calls.  At last the dwarf slumped back, sinking into the chair Pippin had just vacated and letting out a long sigh.  He was not used to feeling so helpless, and the frustration within him was growing to dangerous heights.  He glanced toward Aragorn, trying to hide his worry over Legolas and failing miserably.  “Is there nothing more we can do for him?” he asked hopelessly, already knowing the answer.

Aragorn shook his head gently.  “Arwen and I have already tended to his physical wounds and he is as comfortable as we can make him.  Now we can only wait.  Perhaps he will wake soon.”

Gimli let out a loud grunt.  “Yes, and when he does, will he be the mindless zombie that Pippin described?  Will he even recognize us?”

Again, Aragorn merely shook his head.  “We will just have to wait and see,” he responded quietly.  Despite his calm words, Aragorn was troubled and deeply worried for Legolas.  The elf had been a close companion and a dear friend for many years, and it pained Aragorn when he thought of the shadow lying so heavily over Legolas.  Moreso because of the heavy responsibility he felt toward his friend’s present condition.  He was desperate to help Legolas, but from the moment he had touched the elf, he had know that the shadow over him was beyond his ability to heal.  He and Arwen had done all they could, both healers of no small talent, but now all they could do was wait.

“I hate waiting,” Gimli muttered, then turned his eyes on Gandalf.  “And what of you?” he asked gruffly.  “What do _you_ think of the hobbit’s tale?”

Gandalf was deeply lost in thought and barely heard Gimli’s question.  He turned his gaze briefly to the dwarf, one hand absently stroking his beard and his eyes distant.  “Interesting,” he at last replied before turning back to his own private contemplations.

Gimli glared at him, mumbling loudly beneath his breath.  “For a very wise and learned wizard, I would expect you to be able to come up with a slightly better word than ‘interesting’”, he huffed, switching his glare to Aragorn when the man let out a wry chuckle.  “I meant,” he continued loudly, after clearing his throat to gain Gandalf’s attention, “what do you think of what Malek did to Legolas?  If the physician can’t come up with any answers, perhaps the wizard can!”  His voice was harsh and sarcastic, and he realized remorsefully that he was unfairly taking out his frustration on Aragorn and Gandalf.  He was somewhat amazed that he had refrained from burying his axe deep into one of the few pieces of furniture in the room, and guessed that all his time with Legolas was rubbing off on him.  His friend seemed to contain an unending patience, and Gimli found himself more and more often holding himself in check, whereas before he would have lost his temper.

Both Aragorn and Gandalf understood all too well the dwarf’s raging emotions at the moment, and neither took offense at his harsh words.

“Malek has cast some sort of spell over Legolas,” Gandalf finally answered slowly.  “A very dark and ancient spell from the sounds of it and how he went about it.”  Gandalf stepped forward, looking down at Legolas’ chest intently, even though the bloody scratches left by Malek were hidden from his eyes by a thick patch of clean bandages.

“So how do we go about getting rid of this spell?” Gimli asked impatiently.  “You’re a wizard, can’t you do _something_ to help him?”

Gandalf sighed heavily.  “I am afraid, Master dwarf, that to know even where to begin to help him, I would have had to have been present when Malek cast the spell.  Dealing with another’s magic is harder than you might think, and with my weakened abilities and sketchy information, I could end up doing more harm than good.”

Gimli sank back into the chair, his shoulders drooping and his face desolate.  “Then it is hopeless,” he whispered.  “Even should he wake, he will not know himself, let alone any of us.  He shall be forever lost within his own world of darkness.”  Gimli’s voice was filled with despair and weariness, and his apparent surrender came as somewhat of a shock to his two companions.  Gimli was not one to give up, no matter what the odds against him.

“Do not give up on him yet, dear friend,” Aragorn replied comfortingly.  “You are forgetting a very important detail within Pippin’s tale.”

Gimli cast Aragorn a tired glance.  “And what is that?” he asked unenthusiastically.

It was Gandalf who answered.  “Malek never finished the spell,” he answered matter of factly, his voice soft but firm.

Gimli gave a derisive snort.  “What he _did_ manage is quite enough, don’t you think,” he asked wryly, pointedly glancing toward the still form on the bed.

“True,” Gandalf replied slowly.  “However, unfinished spells have a tendency to…” the wizard paused as if searching for an appropriate word, then shrugged and finished, “unravel.”

“Unravel?” Gimli repeated questioningly, unsure of the wizard’s meaning.

“Dissipating,” Gandalf clarified, “fading away,” he waved one thin hand in the air as if brushing away an invisible strand of smoke.  “Slowly,” he added as an afterthought, when he noticed the excited glint reentering Gimli’s eyes.  “And if this is truly the case with Legolas, then our friend has a very long and hard fight before him.  He will need all the help and support that we can give him.”

“And he shall have it,” Gimli stated boldly, “whenever and whatever I can give!”

“He will carry many scars from this,” Aragorn said sadly, his eyes locked on the pale form of his friend.  Gimli and Gandalf both knew that he spoke of more than the physical scars that Legolas would carry on his back and chest.  “He may never be the same after this.”

Aragorn’s statement hung heavy in the small room, and though none of them wished to dwell on it, they all knew the truth of the words.

The door opened and Arwen entered, the slight smile of amusement on her face at odds with the tenseness in the room.  Aragorn gave her a questioning look as she passed by him to the bed, and her grin grew wider.

“I trust our brave new hero is resting comfortably?” Gandalf asked softly, also watching Arwen closely.

The elf maiden shook her head, her eyes twinkling.  “Nay,” she answered, “he is attending to a more important matter at the moment.”

Aragorn frowned.  “He was exhausted,” he protested.  “He needs rest in order to recover.  What could possibly be more important than…” he trailed off suddenly, realization dawning.  “Oh,” he said simply, shaking his head wryly.

“I hope they leave some food for the rest of us,” Gimli grumbled from across the room, having come to the same conclusion as Aragorn.  “I wouldn’t mind a bite to eat myself.”  Despite his gruff voice, Gimli couldn’t suppress a small smile at the mental picture of all four hobbits up to their ears in food.

The tense atmosphere in the room had eased a bit, and the four companions found themselves able to relax slightly.  Aragorn turned to Arwen and pulled her into his arms for a quick embrace.  “I am going to go and find Faramir,” he informed her softly, gently kissing her cheek before releasing her.  “Take care of him,” he said, glancing over at Legolas, “and send word if he wakes.”

Arwen nodded, her eyes shining unnaturally bright.  “He will be well cared for,” she promised softly.

Aragorn turned to Gandalf and Gimli.

‘I will accompany you,” Gandalf said, but Gimli shook his head.

“I think I will remain here for a while longer,” he stated.  “Have no fear, I will be there for the night’s battle.”

Aragorn nodded, and he and Gandalf turned to leave, but Gimli suddenly called out to them.  Aragorn turned back, arching a questioning eyebrow.

“Pippin and Legolas’ escape from Malek was quite a blow to the creature, wouldn’t you say?” Gimli asked slowly, his eyes narrow and thoughtful.

Aragorn merely nodded, not quite sure where Gimli was going with the question.

“He will want revenge, no doubt,” Gimli continued, a strange expression on his face.  “He may even openly confront us during the battle tonight.”

Aragorn frowned, nodding once more.  “I expect he might,” he answered slowly.  “We will have to remain alert and watchful.”

Gimli nodded, turning back to the bed, a satisfied expression flitting quickly across his face.  Aragorn noticed this, just as he noticed one of Gimli’s hands absently stroking his axe.  He guessed that the purpose behind Gimli’s statement had more in it than simple worry over the fellowship, and he decided that he would have to keep a sharp eye on the dwarf during the coming battle.

 

*****

 

They came in waves, howling with the anticipation of fresh blood and spurred on by the rage of their master.  The very heavens seemed to echo their charge, the sky alive with flashes of lightning and the almost continual rumble of thunder.  The earth shook beneath their feet and all creatures fled before them.

They charged onto the field before Calembel, screaming at their enemies, their voices taunting and filled with hate and bloodlust.  Malek led them, appearing in his natural form, the darkness of night wrapping about him and cloaking him in protective blackness.  All who looked upon him saw only a shadowy outline, indistinct yet horrible to look on all the same.  

The defenders of Calembel watched the orcs rushing toward them with a calm determination that could only come from men who had experienced this all before and who were resigned to whatever grim fate awaited them.  They stood ready in two different defense lines on the field with a third, mostly made up of archers, on the wall.  Aragorn led the soldiers on the field, Faramir and Gimli at his side, while Gandalf, Merry, Sam, and Frodo remained on the wall.  The presence of their king at their head gave new courage to the weary defenders.  They stood tall and proud, the light from the firepits glinting along their drawn weapons and bathing their grim faces in an almost holy light as they waited for the first wave of orcs to reach them.

They did not have to wait long.  With a bright flash of lightning, the two armies met, the resounding clash of sword upon sword meshing with the loud boom of thunder.  The soldiers of Gondor fought with bravery and a ferociousness that matched their enemies, and though they were outnumbered, they brought the orcs advance to a screeching halt.

Aragorn, Anduril gripped tightly in his fist, was a blur of movement, each step and swing a dance of death for any orc who drew near.  He slashed at one creature, then without waiting for it to fall, he pivoted neatly and drove his blade through the throat of yet another orc.  Dancing back several steps, he raised his sword to block an overhead blow, then gracefully lifted his leg and snapped his heavy boot into his attacker’s exposed midriff.  The orc doubled over, then fell dead to the ground as Anduril slashed down at the exposed neck.

Beside Aragorn, Gimli was also a blur of movement, and though his fighting was less a fluid dance, and more the angry charge of a wild bear, the results were the same.  His axe was covered with the dark blood of orcs, and he was busy at the moment fighting off three of the creatures at once, bellowing his war cry, his eyes alight with the furious passion of battle.  Two of the creatures turned and fled, deciding to find easier prey than the enraged dwarf.  The third was not so lucky, loosing his head to Gimli’s axe.

Minutes seemed to turn into hours as the battle raged on, the sheer number of orcs and the force of their charge finally pushing the first line of defenders into a slow retreat.  Each step was given up grudgingly, and the ground was soon littered with bodies.

The first and second lines merged, and the orcs advance was once more brought to a halt.  This time, the battle had drawn close enough to put the fighters in range of the archers on the wall, and soon a hail of arrows were falling on the back ranks of orcs, further aiding the defenders’ courageous stand.

A mighty flash of lightning temporarily blinded all those on the field, followed by a deafening crack and the horrified shrieks of a group of unfortunate orcs who had just watched a group of their companions incinerated by the bolt.

A cheer went up from the defenders, but it was only halfhearted, for they all knew that the next bolt could very easily find its way into their own ranks.  However, the unexpected event did cause the attacking orcs to hesitate slightly, glancing uncertainly at the sky and calling out fearfully to their captains.  Orcs were a superstitious lot for the most part, and the defenders now took advantage of their fear and hesitancy, even managing to push the orcs back several paces before the creatures could regroup under the horrible threats of their captains.

The battle was going well for the defenders, and this fact caused the soldiers to fight even harder, not backing down an inch.  The orcs were becoming confused and frightened, every flash of lightning causing them to flinch or even to throw themselves to the ground.  Still, there were many of them, and they knew the rage of their master should they fail.  Slowly, they began to press forward once more, their thirst for blood overcoming even their fear as they once more began pushing the defenders into a slow retreat.

Pulling Anduril free of the last of a particularly persistent group of orcs attacking him, Aragorn heard a sudden shout off to his right.  He turned just in time to see Gimli take off at a run, slashing his way through any orcs that stood before him.  Aragorn stared after the dwarf in confusion, wondering what his friend could possibly be doing, for Gimli was not running back toward the city, but forward, further into the ranks of orcs.  

“Gimli!” he shouted, trying to get his friend’s attention.  Gimli continued forward, either not hearing the call, or ignoring it.  Aragorn frowned and followed the dwarf’s path with his eyes, trying to figure out where his friend could possibly be going.

And then he saw him.  Malek.  Standing within a ring of orcs, his wide muzzle dripping with blood, his sword slowly twisting through the chest of one of the soldiers.  He stood only a few yards in front of the charging Gimli, and Aragorn suddenly had no doubt of his friend’s intent.

“Gimli, no!” he screamed, racing forward after the dwarf, cursing his friend for his rashness and cursing himself for not keeping a closer watch.  “Gimli, wait!” he cried, as he watched the dwarf break through the ring of orcs surrounding Malek, charging forward with raised axe, his bellow of rage echoing above the sounds of battle.

Aragorn felt his stomach sink as Malek turned to meet the charging dwarf, a wicked grin crossing his face as he pushed the dead soldier from the end of his sword.  Aragorn stumbled forward, slashing his way through the melee, desperate to reach his friend before it was too late.  

Only his battle instincts and lightning reflexes saved him from being split in two, as three _very_ large orcs suddenly materialized in front of him, cutting off his path to Gimli and slashing at him with their wickedly curved swords.  Aragorn went the only direction open to him, back and down, hitting the ground hard and immediately rolling to the side as two blades chopped deep into the ground where his head had been only a second before.  However, he was not quite fast enough to miss the third blade, which cut deep into his shoulder, opening a gash down his left arm.  He shrugged off the blow, ignoring the pain as he fought to regain his feet.  

When he had at last pushed himself from the ground, he found that the orcs had fanned out, flanking him on each side and slowly moving forward, leering evilly.  They were huge, perhaps the biggest he had ever seen, and Aragorn knew that he was in trouble.  If he waited for the orcs to charge him, he would surely be overcome.  So instead, he attacked first, leaping forward toward the nearest orc, sword outstretched before him.

The creature, startled by his bold move, halted its advance, squaring its feet and preparing to meet Aragorn’s attack.  The attack never came though, for when Aragorn was still several feet away, he suddenly pivoted, turning smoothly and slashing instead at the orc charging his back.  

The second creature had expected Aragorn to be busy with its companion and had hoped to surprise the man from behind.  It, however, was the one surprised as Anduril cut cleanly across its face, blinding it.  A return swipe of the sword bit into the creature’s neck, slashing the windpipe and killing it with one clean blow.

_‘One down, two to go,’_ Aragorn thought grimily.  He quickly sidestepped over the fallen orc, turning just in time to meet the charge of the remaining two.  It took all of his talent and strength to keep the creatures’ weapons at bay, and he seemed always a mere step in front of their attacks.  Anduril rose to meet one block, then swept down and to the side to meet another, the ring of metal against metal filling the air.  

Aragorn went on the defensive just long enough for him to gain his footing, then suddenly switched to the attack, using both his sword and his body to help throw his attackers off balance.  He watched carefully for any opening in either of the orcs’ defense, praying it would come soon, for he was quickly growing weary.  He had not completely recovered from his previous injuries and the fight was fast draining him.

A group of struggling orcs and men stumbled past, brushing close to the three combatants and briefly distracting his two attackers.  It was the opening that Aragorn was looking for, and without warning he leapt forward, his sword a mere blur, slipping beneath the first orc’s weapon and digging deep into the creature’s ribs.  At the same time, Aragorn punched out with his uninjured hand, his fist slamming painfully into the throat of the second orc.  This creature stumbled back, gasping and choking for air, his sword arm lowering.

Aragorn would have finished it then, but the first orc, blood pouring from its injured side, reached forward and grabbed Aragorn in a bear hug.  The ex-ranger’s arms were trapped at his side, and he found himself suddenly gasping for air as the orc’s grip tightened about him.  His injured ribs screamed in protest, but once more Aragorn pushed aside the discomfort.  He struggled wildly, fighting against the black dots that threatened his vision and trying desperately to drag air into his tortured lungs.  

He was surprised when the orc suddenly released him, a strange gurgling sound emitting from its mouth.  He stumbled away, just as the creature toppled forward, a knife buried deep into its back.

Aragorn finished off the orc he had punched in the neck, then turned and saluted Faramir as the steward bent and retrieved his knife.  Faramir smiled back grimly and returned the salute, but Aragorn was already gone, racing forward once more toward the last place he had seen Malek and Gimli and praying that he was not too late.

 

******

Gimli was not faring too well.  He was not dead, a miracle in and of itself, but countless wounds covered his stocky frame, blood covering his armor and matting his beard.  He was presently working at pushing himself from the ground, a task that was more difficult the ninth time than it had been the first.  He knew that Malek was merely toying with him and that the creature could finish him off whenever he pleased, but the rage and pride of the dwarf would not allow him to back down.  He had sustained blows that would have knocked any ordinary person flat, yet he continued to battle on, determined to fight to the last.

Malek stood a few feet away, watching as Gimli struggled to his feet, a crooked grin on his face.  It seemed as if the creature was impressed with his show of strength and determination, but Gimli knew that it was only a matter of time before Malek would tire of the fight. The evil creature was plainly enjoying waving the dwarwf’s mortality before his eyes.  

Still, Malek’s actions only served to further infuriate Gimli, which in turn, gave him strength.  A slow plan had been working its way through his head, and as Gimli at last gained his feet, he decided that it was time he put it into action.  He swayed dangerously, appearing on the verge of swooning while all the while watching Malek from the corner of his eyes.  He saw the creature’s disappointed frown at the thought that the battle might be over, yet another sign that Malek was enjoying this fight immensely.  

_‘Let’s see if you are still enjoying it by the time I get through with you!’_  Gimli fought to hide the grim smile that this thought brought to him. 

He at last seemed to regain his balance, and lifting his axe, he stumbled once more toward Malek.  The creature grinned evilly, excited the fun was not yet over, yet not the least bit concerned with the dwarf’s stumbling approach.  He did not even lift his sword in defense, certain that Gimli would not have the strength to actually strike at him.  

“I am going to have to kill you soon.”  

The words caused Gimli to pause for a second, breathing heavily and glaring at Malek.  It was the first time that the creature had spoken since the fight began.

Malek grinned back at him, his razor sharp teeth glinting in the moonlight.  “Have no fear,” he continued in the same low and mocking voice.  “I shall make sure you die slowly and painfully.  Your continued resistance only makes the game that much more fun.”

Gimli growled and continued forward, his steps even more slow and unsteady than they had been before, causing Malek to laugh mockingly.

“You are finished, dwarf.  Even you must see this.”

That was exactly what Gimli wanted Malek to believe.  He advanced until he was only a couple of feet from Malek, then suddenly collapsed to his knees, all strength apparently seeping from him.

Malek laughed again, taking an ominous step toward his apparently helpless victim, his sword rising. 

It was just what Gimli had hoped he would do.  With a final surge of his remaining strength, Gimli brought his axe up and swung with all his might.

Malek saw the blade swinging toward him and jumped back quickly, but not in time to avoid Gimli’s axe cutting a deep groove through the dark flesh of his side. He hissed in pain and fury, glaring down at the dwarf he had thought defeated.  

It was Gimli’s turn to grin, and he was once more on his feet and advancing with no sign of stumbling, enjoying the enraged expression on the creature’s face when Malek realized that he had been tricked.   

“Time to die, dwarf,” Malek hissed, raising his sword and beginning his own advance.  

Gimli had little doubt that he was about to die, for the wound on Malek’s side was already beginning to close in on itself, and the creature’s movements were as swift and graceful as ever.  Still, he managed to lift his axe proudly, spitting at the feet of his advancing enemy in a last show of defiance.  He tensed his body and prepared to spring forward to meet Malek, determined to do as much damage as he could before the end.

He never got the opportunity however, for a sudden blinding flash of light roared past him, its force actually picking him up and flinging him several yards backwards to land in a dazed heap.  A thousand dazzling lights exploded across his vision, and the roar that filled his ears was deafening.  Pain assailed all his senses and as he slowly slipped toward blackness, his last thought was one of intense remorse.

‘Lightning!  After all this, to die  
from lightning!  Such a pity…’


	25. Light of Earendil

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Fellowship is reuniting, but may face a new threat that is hunting them all.

“Gimli?”

The voice came as if from a great distance, cutting through the blackness and jarring into his semiconscious mind like a spear through a ripe melon.

“Gimli, you must wake!  Come, my friend, show me some life.”

Gimli moaned.  At least, he tried to moan, but his vocal chords no longer seemed to be obeying his mind’s commands.  His eyes also were rebelling against him, for as hard as he tried, he could not seem to get them open.  It seemed as if a great, numbing blanket had settled over his body, and he wished for nothing more than to give into its weight and drift back into the painless comfort of nothingness.

The voice would not let him.  That nagging, incessant voice that had been calling to him for what seemed an eternity!  Gimli tried even harder to press his mind into consciousness, if for no other reason that to shut up the voice!

“Gimli, if you do not wake, I shall shave your beard and turn your armor pink!”

It was the last straw.  With a gigantic effort of will, Gimli forced his eyes open and glared up at the figure bending over him.

“You wouldn’t dare!”  he growled, even as he tried to fight off the waves of nausea and pain that crashed down on him.  His eyes refused to focus, and there were three Aragorns looking down at him, each one nothing but a blur, but that did not stop Gimli from glaring at all of them.

“Ahh, so there is some life left in you after all,” Aragorn said wryly, his voice sounding distant, as if it were coming to Gimli through a heavy fog.

Gimli grimaced, trying desperately to focus his eyes and watching as Aragorn’s three heads slowly melted back into one.  “What happened,” he asked, breathing deeply and trying to summon the energy to push himself upright.

“You were knocked unconscious,” Aragorn answered, reaching forward and helping Gimli maneuver into a sitting position.  His tone was half worried and half angry, and as Gimli focused on him, he saw the same odd mix on the man’s face.

He glanced around him, ignoring his dizziness and trying to collect his scattered thoughts and summon some memory of what had happened to him.  It did not take long for everything to come crashing back, and he jerked himself further upright, his hands desperately searching for his axe.

“Malek,” he gasped, his eyes searching through the nighttime darkness and shadows cast from the fires along the wall.  There was no sign of Malek anywhere, and no sign of any orcs either, at least, no live orcs, and he frowned in confusion.

“Gone,” Aragorn said calmly, placing a strong hand on the dwarf’s shoulder to steady him.  “He has retreated along with all his orc army and will not trouble us further this night.”

“Gone,” Gimli repeated, still confused.  He glanced toward the eastern horizon, half expecting to see the light of dawn, and frowning when there was only darkness.  “How long have I been unconscious?” he asked slowly, eyeing Aragorn suspiciously.

“A matter of minutes,” Aragorn answered immediately, returning Gimli’s look with one of his own.

Gimli frowned.  “If that is the case, it is still hours until sunrise.  Why would Malek retreat so early?”

Aragorn opened his mouth to reply, but before he could speak, a sudden realization struck Gimli, causing him to snap his fingers loudly.

“The lightning,” he gasped, watching Aragorn’s face carefully for confirmation.  “The lightning,” he repeated, “It got him, didn’t it!”  His voice was filled with excitement, but also no small amount of disappointment.  Oh, how he longed to drive his axe into the heart of Malek, and the thought of lightning stealing that joy from him was somewhat disturbing.

Aragorn shook his head.  “It was not lightning,” he answered easily, “and yes, it did get him.  Not hard enough to cause serious or lasting damage, but enough to cause him to retreat for the night and take his foul army with him.  We have been given several extra hours, and I suggest we find the best way to put them to use.  That is, if you have finished your little nap.”

Surprisingly, Gimli offered no retort to Aragorn’s words.  He was still busy trying to mull through what his friend had told him.  “Not lightning,” he whispered, his brow wrinkled in thought.  “If it was not lightning, what…” he trailed off, comprehension dawning.  “Gandalf!” he exclaimed, his eyes widening.  “Gandalf was the one that blasted me!?”  It was more a statement than a question, and Gimli’s voice was outraged.

“Blasted Malek,” Aragorn corrected, his voice still annoyingly calm.  “You just happened to be a little too close.”

Gimli grumbled a curse loudly, glaring at Aragorn.  “He almost killed me,” he huffed, and would have continued, but Aragorn cut him off.

“He saved your life!” the ex-ranger replied sharply, his eyes flashing dangerously.  “Going after Malek on your own was not the wisest thing you have ever done, Gimli.  In fact, I would dare to say it was the most unwise.  What where you thinking?  You knew, at least should have known, that you could not hope to win against him.  Have you gone utterly and completely mad!?”

Aragorn was not shouting, but he came close.  Gimli did not answer him right away, partly because he didn’t know what to say, and partly because he was taken off guard by his friend’s obvious anger.  It was true, he knew.  The anger and battle rage had taken control of him at the sight of Malek, and he had thought of nothing other than revenge upon the one who had caused so much pain to his friends, Legolas in particular.  Now, with Malek gone, the mad rage that had controlled him had also gone, leaving him with the realization of just how foolish his actions had been.  Still, he could not rid his mind of his single instant of triumph, when his axe had sunk deep into Malek’s black flesh!  Even the knowledge that Malek would quickly heal from the strike did not steal away the grim satisfaction that the dwarf had felt!

“My mistake,” Gimli finally admitted with a shrug.

Aragorn sighed, the anger draining from his face as he sat back and studied the dwarf’s battered form.  It was obvious that Gimli’s statement was the closest thing to an apology that he would receive.  

“Let us get off this field and find Gandalf and the others,” Aragorn finally said, reaching forward and attempting to help Gimli to his feet.  “It is time we come up with our own plan concerning Malek, and he has kindly given us some extra time in which to do this.”

Gimli couldn’t have agreed more.  However, as he was hauled to his feet, a wave of pain and nausea struck him hard, causing him to sway unsteadily and moan loudly. His head felt as if it was about to burst.

Aragorn quickly steadied him, holding him upright until most of the dizziness had passed.

Gimli reached up and gently rubbed the back of his head, wincing as his fingers encountered a sticky wetness matting his hair.  When he brought his hand back down, it shone darkly with blood.  “I think I must have landed on my head,” he muttered softly, looking around him and grimacing when he spotted his smashed helm lying several feet away.

“Then it is a good thing that dwarves have such hard heads,” Aragorn answered lightly, still holding Gimli steady, but moving behind him to examine the wound on his own, “or else your brains would be scattered all over this field right at the moment.”

“Are you sure they aren’t?” Gimli muttered, wincing yet again at Aragorn’s gently probing fingers.

“Yes,” Aragorn answered, “but the gash on your head is deep, and will need tending, as well as all your other wounds. Come my friend, let us waste no more time here.”

Gimli nodded, but had only taken two shaky steps when he collapsed against Aragorn, blackness once again closing in on him.  He distantly heard Aragorn sigh, and felt strong arms close about him a second before everything went dark.

 

*****

“He looks so pale,” Sam whispered softly, staring down into the still face of Legolas lying on the bed before him.  Frodo stood beside him, but did not answer, his eyes sad as he watched his unconscious friend.

“Arwen said he woke about an hour ago,” Sam continued, “but he didn’t seem to recognize her, or even know she was there.”

Frodo nodded silently.  “That is what Pippin said he was like during their escape,” he whispered softly.  “Gandalf seems to think it will pass, though.”

“I hope so,” Sam muttered.  “I do not like seeing him like this, and I think it is driving Gimli crazy.”

Frodo nodded once more, imagining that he could still hear Gimli’s loud grumbling and muttering clear on the other side of the house of healing.  Aragorn had carried the dwarf there, where Arwen now tended him. He was awake once more and complaining loudly about anything and everything.  It was plain that the dwarf’s frustration was wearing away at his nerves, not to mention the nerves of everyone around him.

After delivering Gimli to Arwen, Aragorn had left in search of Faramir and Gandalf, and Merry had gone to see if Pippin was awake yet.  Frodo and Sam had decided to check in on Legolas, as much to get away from Gimli as for any other reason. 

“You know what he reminds me of, Master Frodo,” Sam asked slowly, still staring down at Legolas’ pale features.  “He reminds me of you.”

Frodo looked at him in surprise, but Sam only nodded.  “Right after you got bitten by that big spider near Cirith Ungul.  When I saw you lying there, as pale as anything and not moving, well, I thought for sure that you were dead!”

“Don’t remind me,” Frodo cried, shaking his head fiercely.  “That is a time I would just as soon forget.”

“Aye,” Sam said slowly, “me as well, but I fear it is something I will _never_ forget.”  He turned to Frodo then, and the sadness in his eyes was almost more than his friend could bear.  “I left you there,” he whispered.  “Just left you lying there.” 

“You thought I was dead, Sam,” Frodo replied gently.  “You cannot blame yourself, for I never did.  There was no way you could have known.”

Sam was shaking his head.  “But I _did_ know, Master Frodo.  At least, I should have.  When I took your phial out, the one from the lady Galadriel, you looked so peaceful in its light, as if you were merely sleeping.  I should have known then that you were still alive, but I just didn’t understand it until it was too late.”

Frodo shook his head helplessly, unable to come up with anything to say that would comfort Sam.  It was obvious that this was a burden the hobbit had been carrying deep within himself for quite some time, and Frodo only hoped that talking about it might clear Sam of some of the guilt he seemed to feel.

Silence fell between the two for several long minutes before Sam suddenly jerked upright, turning to Frodo with an excited look.  “That’s it!” the hobbit exclaimed, snapping his fingers.  “The light!”

“What about the light?” Frodo asked, confused.

“Maybe the light in that phial can help Legolas,” Sam explained.  “Arwen said he was trapped in darkness, maybe the light will help bring him out!”  

It took Frodo a couple of seconds to figure out what Sam was talking about, but when it finally dawned on him, he too sat up excitedly.  “It might just work,” he whispered slowly.  

“It most certainly won’t hurt to try,” Sam commented, watching Frodo closely.  “Did you bring it with you?”

Frodo nodded.  “It is up with the rest of my stuff at the mayor’s house,” he told Sam.  “You stay here, and I will go and get it.”

Sam agreed, and Frodo quickly left the room, and then the building, striding swiftly up the dark streets toward the mayor’s large house.  He guessed that dawn was still close to an hour away, and when he finally reached the house, he paused in the entrance, letting his eyes adjust to the almost pitch black inside the building before pushing forward into the gloom.  He found the room he had been sharing with Sam easily enough, and with a single wistful glance to the bed, he moved to where his and Sam’s packs lay discarded in one corner.  He fished around in his until he found the small compartment he had sown to the back of the pack.  Opening the pocket, he pulled out a small pouch and stuffed it inside his tunic before rising and leaving the building once more.

When he re-entered the room, Sam leapt up to meet him, and the two walked over to the bed, looking down once more at Legolas’ too pale features.  

“Let’s try it then,” Frodo whispered, pulling the pouch from his tunic and undoing the strings holding it shut.  The two hobbits shared one last hopeful look, before Frodo tipped the small pouch and let the contents fall into his hand.

The small phial glittered and twinkled mysteriously for a few long seconds, then slowly began to brighten, its white light spreading through the room.  Shadows fled before the dazzling light, and the single low burning lamp beside the bed seemed weak and dim when compared to the bright glow of E _ä_ rendil’s star.

Frodo and Sam watched in wonder, hypnotized by the unique beauty of the phial.  Sam nudged Frodo lightly and pointed toward the bed, and Frodo smiled and nodded.

Legolas did indeed look better, for instead of making him look paler, the white light seemed to enhance the color of his skin, bringing out a slight flush to the high cheekbones.  Even as the two watched, they imagined a slight flutter of Legolas’ closed lids, and they both leaned closer, praying the elf would wake.  However, several more minutes passed with no movement from the prone form, and Frodo and Sam at last sat back, their disappointed sighs echoing through the silence of the room.

Frodo moved to replace the phial in its pouch, when a sudden loud gasp from the doorway caused both of them to spin around.  They had not heard the door open.

The small boy, Dar, stood in the doorway, his eyes wide with wonder and his mouth hanging open.  He clutched the open doorway in one hand, while the other covered his mouth, his eyes wide with shock. He seemed unable to tear his gaze from the bright light emanating from Frodo’s closed fist.

“Hello, Dar,” Frodo called quietly, and as the boy’s gaze snapped to his own, he slipped the phial back into his pouch.  The sudden gloom that fell over the room caused all three of them to gasp in surprise and blink rapidly to clear their vision.

“Hello,” Dar finally answered slowly, moving fully into the room and shutting the door behind him.  He stood regarding Frodo and Sam intently, his hands twisting and gripping his shirt, and his eyes shining brightly.

“Come to see Legolas, have you?” Sam asked cheerfully, motioning Dar over to the bed.

The boy moved slowly, nodding his head, but his eyes remained glued to the small pouch in Frodo’s hand.  He reached the bed, and at last glanced away to look down at Legolas.  His youthful face immediately scrunched up in a frown, and he gripped an edge of the blanket tightly in his fist.  “He doesn’t look too good.”  He commented softly, causing Frodo and Sam to exchange surprised looks.

“Legolas is very sick right now, Dar,” Sam said gently.  “But elves are also very strong.  Don’t worry, he will be up and about before you know it.”

Dar nodded, and his eyes strayed once more to the pouch lying in Frodo’s lap.  “What is that?” he finally asked, obviously unable to contain his curiosity any longer.

Frodo glanced at Sam, who merely shrugged, before turning back to Dar.  “It is a gift,” he explained slowly.  “Something that was given to me by the Lady of the Wood.”

Frodo had not expected Dar to know whom he was speaking of, but by the sudden stiffening of the lad’s body, and the gleam in his eyes, he guessed that Dar might know more than he thought.

“The Lady of the Wood?” Dar gasped, his eyes going as round as saucers.  “Is it magic then?”

“It’s Elven,” Frodo replied, as if that was the only answer needed.  “It is the light of one of their stars, set amidst the water of their land.  It is very powerful.”

“Can I see it again,” Dar begged, “please?”  

Frodo shrugged, and once more removed the phial from the small pouch.  The bright light returned in full, and not a shadow was left in the room.

“It’s very beautiful,” Dar commented, unable to stare directly at the blinding light.

Frodo smiled at him, and then held the phial out toward Dar.  “Would you like to hold it?” he offered, grinning wider at the delighted look in the boy’s eyes.

Dar reached forward and reverently took the phial from Frodo’s hand, his face ecstatic.  Frodo allowed him to hold it for a several minutes before finally retrieving it and dropping it back into the pouch.

“Thank you,” Dar said politely, his eyes shining brightly.  “I had better go now.  My dad doesn’t know where I am, and he will probably be looking for me.  Wait until I tell him.”

“Goodbye, Dar,” Frodo and Sam called after him as the boy raced to the door and yanked it open.  He waved back carelessly over his shoulder, then charged through the door, nearly knocking over Merry and Pippin, who had been about to enter.  Yelling back an apology, he disappeared down the hall.

“What was that all about?” Merry asked as he walked into the room.

“Come on you two,” Pippin called from where he still stood in the hallway.  “Merry and I are going to find some breakfast, you want to come along?”

“That is a dumb question,” Sam mumbled good naturedly, already heading towards the door.

“You don’t have to ask us twice,” Frodo agreed, joining his companions in the hall, and shutting the door quietly behind him.  The four friends started off down the hall, arguing about the best breakfast meal Sam had ever prepared.

Back in the room, Legolas shifted slightly, the fingers of one hand fluttering softly before he once more lay still.

 

*******

Dar found his father down near the southern gate of the city, and the lad wasted no time in telling his father everything about the small crystal phial, and its powerful magic.  Kenson listened patiently, allowing his son to rattle on and on for several long minutes before he finally dropped to one knee before the boy.

“That is a very interesting story, son,” he told Dar fondly, reaching out and ruffling the lad’s hair, “And I would love to hear more about it, but right now, I have a lot of work to do.”

Dar’s small face scrunched up in disappointment, and he let out a loud sigh.  “When is this whole thing going to be over?” he asked grumpily, his shoulders slumping.  “I want things to go back to normal now.”

“I do as well,” Kenson replied honestly, “But right now, there is a very bad creature leading the orcs to attack us, and until he is defeated, we must continue to fight.”

“Why don’t you just kill him?” Dar asked simply, his face puzzled.

“I wish it were as easy as that,” an amused voice spoke up from behind the pair, and Kenson immediately jumped to his feet and bowed low to Aragorn.

“My lord,” he gasped. “I am sorry, but I did not hear your approach.”

Aragorn waved away his apology, a small smile briefly flashing across his grim features.

“Why isn’t it?”  Dar asked, and both men looked down at him, confused for a second before remembering what the lad was speaking of.

“The creature leading the orcs is very evil and very powerful,” Aragorn explained gently.

“I bet my dad could beat him,” Dar boasted proudly, “He can beat anything.”

“I am sure you are right,” Aragorn replied seriously, and Kenson shifted uncomfortably.  “But you see, this creature is not normal.  He cannot be killed at night, and is powerful beyond anything you could imagine.”

“You mean he is immortal?” Dar asked, confused.

“Invincible,” Aragorn corrected, “And only at night, for he is a dark creature.  He hates light, for it steals his strength and leaves him weak and pathetic.”

Dar nodded slowly.  “I do not think he would like Mister Frodo’s star very much then.” he commented lightly.

Aragorn frowned slightly and shook his head.  “What do you mean, Mister Frodo’s star?” he asked slowly.

Dar brightened, having found a new audience to whom to tell his tale.  “He said it was a gift from the Lady of the Wood,” he explained excitedly.  “It’s a star, and it gives off a beautiful white light.  He even let me hold it!  It lit up the entire room just like it was day!”

“Dar,” Kenson began, intending to send his son away, but he stopped suddenly when he saw the expression on Aragorn’s face.

“What is it, my lord?” he asked worriedly, but Aragorn did not respond.  The ex-ranger whirled suddenly and grabbed a passing soldier by the arm, startling the man.

“Go and find Faramir and Gandalf,” Aragorn ordered the surprised man.  “Tell them to meet me at the Mayor’s house.”

The soldier nodded quickly, and Aragorn released him, turning back to Kenson and Dar.  There was an excited look in his eyes, and a wide smile on his face.  He dropped to his knees in front of a startled Dar and reached out to grip the lad’s shoulders tightly.

“Thank you,” he said softly.  “Thank you so much.”

 

****

Dawn was just beginning to lighten the horizon over Calembel, as Aragorn, Gandalf, Faramir, Gimli, and the four hobbits gathered together in the spacious room that had served as the office of Merton Fallow Candywell III.  Kenson Brantz had unexpectedly been invited to attend the meeting, and he stood awkwardly in one corner, obviously feeling out of place within the group of friends.  A tense excitement filled the air as all waited for Aragorn to reveal why he had called them together.

At the moment, both Aragorn and Gandalf stood at the far end of the office, speaking quietly together, and apparently completely oblivious to the seven sets of eyes that watched them intently.  The tension and excited anticipation within the room had risen quite high before Aragorn at last turned from Gandalf and strode toward the rest of the companions, smiling slightly at their eager and expectant faces.

“I believe our waiting is finally at an end,” he began softly, eying each of his companions in turn.  “I think the solution to our problem has at last been found.”

Gimli leaned forward in his chair, his face excited and his hand clenching tightly around the hilt of his axe.  “You have come up with a plan?” he asked eagerly.  “A plan to destroy Malek?”

“The beginnings of a plan,” Aragorn answered slowly.  

“The beginnings?” Gimli asked with a frown, his voice confused.

“Yes, the beginnings” Aragorn repeated, smiling down at the dwarf.  “That is why you are all here.  To help me figure out some of the finer…details.”

“Perhaps you should tell us what this plan is,” Pippin stated quietly, unable to hold back any longer.

“I could tell you,” Aragorn answered slyly, “yet I would prefer to show you.”  He turned to Frodo then, and arched a questioning eyebrow.  “Did you bring it?” he asked simply.

Frodo nodded and reached a hand within his tunic.  He alone, besides Gandalf, knew at least part of what Aragorn planned, for the ex-ranger had already met with him, and they had talked long.

All eyes had now turned to Frodo, eying him curiously, and at Aragorn’s slight nod, he withdrew his hand from his tunic.  In it, he held the small crystal phial given to him by the lady Galadriel, glittering and emitting rays of white light that twirled and shimmered around the room in a hypnotizing dance.

“E _ä_ rendil’s star,” Aragorn whispered softly into the ensuing awed silence.  “It shines brightest when things are darkest.  It is to be our last hope, the means with which to fight the evil that is Malek.”

No one spoke, and it seemed almost as if the companions in the room were caught in a spell cast by the tiny crystal object.  At last, Aragorn nodded to Frodo, and the hobbit returned the phial to the small pocket on the inside of his tunic.  Without the star’s light, the room seemed dark and gloomy, despite the early morning sunlight streaming in though the many sets of windows around the office.

“For many days, I have been trying to figure out a way to lure Malek from his underground cave and into the light of day.”  Aragorn continued, his voice hushed, as if reluctant to break the reverent silence that encompassed the room.  “Now, however, I realize I have been going about it the wrong way.  Why try to bring Malek into the light, when we can bring the light, to Malek?”

“Will it be strong enough?”

The question came from Gimli, who at last managed to tear his eyes from where the small phial had disappeared inside Frodo’s tunic.

It was Gandalf who answered.  “It will be strong enough,” the wizard replied, calm assurance filling his voice.  “With this, even the black of night will be unable to protect Malek.  He will be weakened and unable to withstand our attacks.”

“So, now we have the means to destroy Malek,” Aragorn stated boldly, “Now all we have to figure out is where and when.”

“Why not wait until Malek attacks us tonight, and then confront him with the light?” Faramir suggested.  “Once you destroy him, the orcs will most likely scatter.”

Aragorn was already shaking his head before the Steward even finished.  “If we confront Malek during the battle, there is too great a chance of his slipping away and escaping us.  Either that, or calling his orcs to his aid before we can finish him off.  We will have only one chance at this, one chance to take Malek by surprise.  We cannot risk any possibility that he might escape.”

“What do you suggest then?” Gimli grunted, eying Aragorn shrewdly.

“We must confront Malek in an area where we can trap him, keep him from running.  Also, where the light of Earendil will shine the brightest and do the most damage.”  Aragorn glanced around at the faces staring at him questioningly.  “The most likely place will be within his cave.  It is time we bring the battle to Malek!”

Shocked silence fell, but did not last long.

“Are you suggesting that we attack Malek and his army at their lair?” Faramir asked, a slight frown marring his handsome features and his eyes doubtful. 

“That’s impossible,” Pippin blurted out, his eyes wide and his face pale at the thought of returning to the place where he had gone through so much torment.  “To get to Malek, you would have to get past thousands of orcs,” he reasoned stiffly, trying to hide the slight quiver in his voice.  “There would be no surprise, and I doubt we would even manage to _reach_ Malek before we would all be cut down!  It would be suicide,” he finished haltingly, beginning to feel slightly embarrassed by all the eyes on him.  His hand went unconsciously to the freshly healing cuts along one side of his face, and he could not hide his sudden shudder.

“Easy, Pippin,” Aragorn said calmly, giving the young hobbit an encouraging smile.  “I have no intention of facing Malek with all of his orcs around.  Malek chose his lair well, and a mere handful of orcs could defend it against our army easily, while the rest of the beasts circled around behind us and cut us off. We will just have to find a way to separate him from his army.”  His voice was calm, despite the enormity of the task he was now suggesting.

 “That will prove to be no easy task,” Gandalf pointed out quietly, watching Aragorn closely.

“I may have an idea,” Aragorn replied, “yet I need more information before I will know whether or not it will work.”  He suddenly turned to Kenson, the bright gleam in his eyes causing the man to give a slight start.  “Captain, how well do you know the land around the mountains?”

Kenson cleared his throat, straightening and trying to shake off his surprise at being addressed.  “I know the land quite well, my lord,” he answered immediately, not taking his eyes from Aragorn’s.  “I grew up here, and the mountains were like a back yard to me when I was a lad, and I have traveled through them often with the merchants.”

“Awful big back yard,” Sam muttered under his breath, and Kenson shot him a quick smile.

“Do you know of any area where a smaller army might be able to hold off a larger?” Aragorn asked without pause, ignoring the small exchange.

“You mean to leave the city?” Gimli gasped, hardly daring to believe what he was hearing.

Aragorn replied with a grim smile.  “As I said, it is time we bring the battle to Malek.”

“Yes,” Gimli spluttered, “but what could we possibly gain from such a desperate act.”

Aragorn gave a dismissive shrug of his shoulders.  “I do not now,” he answered honestly, “yet,” he finished.   “The act is indeed desperate, and Malek will no doubt believe it merely the last futile attempts of a defeated army.  If we play our positions right, we may be able to use this to our advantage.

Gimli shook his head, obviously not convinced by Aragorn’s reasoning, but he said nothing more.

Aragorn turned back to Kenson, arching a questioning eyebrow and repeating his earlier question.

Kenson nodded slowly, though he plainly did not understand where Aragorn was leading with his line of questioning.  “There is one area where what you speak of can be accomplished.” he answered slowly, his eyes distant.  “Several miles northeast of here, where the river Ciril begins its cut through the mountain.  The land around the river is mostly a maze of high canyons, where ambushes can be easily set, and were a small force can hold off a larger as long as they know well the area they choose to fight in.”

“And how well do you know this area?” Aragorn asked quickly, his expression telling the others that an idea had come to the ex-ranger.

“As well as any,” Kenson answered quickly.  “I traveled through the canyons often with my father as a child, and though the merchants usually choose to avoid them, I have also traversed them as an adult.”

“Tell me of them,” Aragorn ordered, “Everything that you can remember.”

Kenson complied, speaking of the high walls and many mazelike passageways cutting through the caverns.  He told Aragorn everything that he could recall, and when he had finally finished, the ex-ranger sat back with a small sigh and a very thoughtful expression on his face. 

The others watched him closely, the four hobbits exchanging shrugs and confused looks.  At last, Aragorn leaned forward, a strange but familiar light glowing in his eyes.

“I think I have a plan,” he stated quietly.


	26. Desperate Plans

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Fellowship is reuniting, but may face a new threat that is hunting them all.

Aragorn stood tall and relaxed on the north wall of Calembel, allowing the early afternoon sun to bathe his face in calming warmth.  There was much to do, but for this fleeting moment, he allowed his body to rest, and his mind to briefly work free of the tangle of plans and details that had crowded his thoughts for so long.  It felt good to merely stand, without moving or thinking, allowing the gentle breeze to ruffle his dark hair, and when he finally forced his body back into action, he somehow felt rested and revitalized.  His thoughts turned back to the task at hand, and the relaxed set of his features once more transformed into a hard and determined grimace.  He knew that night would be coming all too soon, and there was still much to be set in place if his plan was to have any chance of success.

The plan.  Aragorn had gone over it time and again within his mind, smoothing out the fine edges and searching for any weak points.  Unfortunately, he had found all too many, but there was simply nothing to be done about it.  The city was on its last legs, and something had to be done fast if there was to be any hope of survival.  The plan was the last desperate act of an army that was swiftly running out of time and hope.  Legolas was out of the action, both he and Gimli were wounded and quickly losing strength, and all the others were nearing collapse from exhaustion.  One way or another, Aragorn knew that this night’s action would see an end to it once and for all.

Still, he could not keep the doubts from crowding in on him, nor the heavy responsibility he felt toward his people from crushing down on him.  He had spent several hours this morning with Gandalf, Gimli, Faramir, and Kenson, pouring over maps and working out the final details of the plan he had laid out before them.  He knew that his friends stood firmly behind him, though they knew as well as he all that could go wrong, yet the overall responsibility of success or defeat would fall on him.

His plan was simple, yet at the same time, somehow terribly complicated, requiring split second timing, dangerous maneuvers, and no small amount of courage and luck on the part of the defenders.  It was a plan that rode a fine line between success and defeat, and only the fates knew on what side of this line the desperate defenders would ultimately fall.  Yet, despite the dangers, if carried out correctly, it would see not only the defeat of Malek, but the destruction of his orc army as well. 

“My lord!”

Aragorn turned at the call, watching as a young soldier scrambled up the wall and hurried toward him.  

“What do you have to report?” Aragorn asked when the young man at last reached him, red faced and puffing for breath.

“Captain Kenson has returned from the canyons, my lord,” the soldier replied hurriedly. “He reports that everything is in place, and he is ready to lead the force there whenever you order.”

Aragorn nodded, smiling slightly at the quick efficiency of the merchant captain.  “Tell him he may begin his preparations, but that I wish to speak with him before he leaves.”

The soldier nodded, then quickly bowed and departed at a run.  He had not even faded from sight before Aragorn was once more hailed from behind.

“My lord.”

Aragorn turned to face the new messenger, this one a bit older than the last, but in no less of a hurry. 

“Lord Faramir bid me tell you that he and his men are ready and wish to depart as soon as possible.  They wish to learn the land where they will fight before night approaches.”

For the second time, Aragorn nodded.  “Tell him to proceed,” he stated simply, and the soldier bowed and also departed at a run.

Everyone was running today, or so it seemed.  An excited air filled the city, and no one had escaped its influence.  Except for the officers, few of the soldiers knew the details of the plan beyond their immediate role, yet they were no less affected then any others.  

“My lord.”

For the third time in less than five minutes, Aragorn heard the call from behind him, yet this time, instead of rushed and urgent, the voice was soft and gentle.  Aragorn smiled and turned, opening his arms to Arwen and pulling her tightly to his chest.  He bent down and laid a gentle kiss on her forehead.

“My lady,” he responded to her greeting, his voice soft and slightly teasing.  “I have missed you.”

“And I you,” she responded lightly, turning within his embrace to look up at him.  “It seems the only time I see you anymore is if you or one of your adventurous companions are in need of my healing skills.”

Aragorn smiled down at her wistfully.  “I wish I could spend every minute of every day beside you, my love,” he whispered softly, “yet I hold a responsibility to this city and…”

Arwen cut him off by reaching up and laying a finger across his lips, the bright twinkle in her eyes telling him that his explanations were not needed.  “I know,” she said simply, wrapping her arms around his waist and laying her head against his firm chest, listening to the strong beat of his heart.

Aragorn merely held her against him tightly, stroking her smooth hair and allowing her to relax against him.  At last, Arwen pulled back from Aragorn and began looking him up and down, her eyes going from his bandaged arm to his weary and pale face.  She frowned slightly, and Aragorn almost laughed out loud at the small pucker in her lips.

“Do not pout at me, my love,” he said teasingly.  “I am tired, yet I still have enough strength left in me to do what needs to be done.  Do not worry.”

Arwen did not respond except for a small shake of her head, her large eyes unreadable.   This scene was nothing new between them, and any arguments she might have had for him had been used up long ago.

“How is Legolas?” Aragorn asked, attempting to change the subject and switch Arwen’s attention from himself.

“He is doing well,” Arwen answered after throwing Aragorn an all too knowing look.  “His physical wounds are healing quickly and I expect he will wake soon.  Gimli is with him now.”

Aragorn nodded, pleased with the news.  “Walk with me?” he offered, holding his arm out for Arwen to grasp.  “I must go and meet with Kenson Brantz, and I will be glad of your company.”

Arwen nodded, and the two began to walk slowly toward the nearest ramp that would lead down from the wall and into the city streets that seemed strangely quiet and empty.

“Where are all the soldiers?” Arwen asked curiously.

“Most are down by the north gate with Kenson, preparing to head into the canyons” Aragorn responded.  “The rest have already departed with Faramir.  All that are left are the ones who will be remaining here in the city.”

Arwen nodded, and they walked on in silence for a while before Aragorn again spoke.

“When will you begin to move the injured down to the docks?” he asked.

“Soon,” Arwen responded.  “Yet I hope it will prove to be unnecessary.”

“As do I,” Aragorn assured her.  “Yet the city will be virtually defenseless, and if Faramir fails in his task and the orcs come here, I would prefer that they find nothing but stone and wood.”

“You do not truly think that Faramir will fail?” Arwen stated as much as asked.

“No,” Aragorn responded, “yet I intend to take no risks.  Things have gone well so far, and both Kenson and Faramir are well prepared for the tasks before them, yet that does not mean that nothing can go wrong.”

“And what of you?” Arwen asked suddenly, squeezing his hand tightly.  “Are you and the others prepared for your part in all of this?”

“We are prepared,” Aragorn answered firmly, then started in surprise when Arwen snorted at the reply.

“Prepared,” she said hotly.  “One old wizard who admits his powers are weakened, four hobbits who are better suited for eating than for fighting, a dwarf who should be flat on his back, and a king who has not slept in days, all going up against an evil creature who’s sole desire is to destroy them, and you believe that you are prepared?”

Aragorn stared at her in surprise.  “I think that the hobbits have proved…” he began, but Arwen cut him off.

“I am not speaking of the hobbits,” she whispered. “I am speaking of me!”

Aragorn stared at her, now completely confused.

“I wish I was going with you,” Arwen said, her eyes filled with sadness.

“As do I,” Aragorn answered, though it was not completely the truth.  Though he loved having Arwen at his side, he would never like the idea of her in danger, even with the knowledge that she was more than able to take care of herself.

Arwen let out a low laugh, as if reading his thoughts.  “Ignore me, my love,” she said sadly.  “I have spoken out of place, and I apologize.  I hold complete faith in you and the others.”  She stopped suddenly, pulling Aragorn to a halt beside her.

“I must go,” she stated abruptly, and Aragorn wondered briefly if he had somehow angered her.  “We shall be moving the injured soldiers soon, and I wish to be there to help.”  She stepped forward and quickly embraced Aragorn, kissing him briefly but passionately, before turning and gracefully striding back up the narrow streets.

Aragorn watched her go, trying to sort through his conflicting emotions.  At last he sighed and turned back down the road.   Kenson was waiting for him, and Aragorn had kept him too long already.  His phase of the plan would not require him to leave the city until near nightfall, and he resolved that he would find time to speak with Arwen again before that time.  Right now, he had other things to worry about.

******

“I wish you would wake, Legolas.”

Gimli’s voice, instead of being rough and harsh, was surprisingly calm and gently, and strangely resigned.  He stood over Legolas, staring down at his friend as if expecting the elf to immediately respond to his wish and wake up.

“We would make an unbeatable pair, you and I,” Gimli continued softly after several minutes of silence.  “Malek would not stand a chance!”

Again, Gimli paused, his eyes distant as memories of past battles beside the elf returned to him.  They had truly been an unbeatable pair, and Gimli now found himself wondering sadly if he would ever fight beside his dearest friend again.  Even if he somehow survived the coming battle with Malek, would Legolas survive the black shadow that encompassed his soul?  And if he survived, would he ever be the same?  

Gimli felt his heart clench painfully at this line of questioning, and he realized that he would do anything to see that it was so.  He would stand beside Legolas, and if the elf did not have the strength to break free of this shadow, then Gimli would give him his strength.  He would not allow Malek to destroy his dearest friend!

“He shall pay for what he has done to us.” Gimli muttered softly, as much to himself as to the figure on the bed.  His voice was hard, and he clenched the haft of his axe, and wicked gleam entering his eyes.  He was determined to stand by Legolas, but first he had to deal with the creature that had so hurt his friend in the first place.

“Have no fear, Legolas,” Gimli whispered softly, “he shall not escape my axe again!”

He glanced down to the bed once more.

“And I expect you to be awake by the time I get back!” he huffed, reaching forward and  clasping Legolas’ hand tightly, imagining for a brief second that he felt a slight squeeze of response from the slender fingers.  Yet he knew this was most likely only his wishful thinking, and with a soft grunt, he turned and silently left the room.

*******

Faramir sat still and silent atop a high rise, his watchful gaze sweeping over the narrow valley below him.  The high peaks of the Ered Nimrais rose majestically directly to his left, offering partial protection against the chill evening wind.  The last rays of sunlight were just disappearing from view, casting the valley into shadow and turning the boulders and outcroppings into indistinct shapes.

Faramir needed no light as he continued his study, for everything he needed to know was in his head, impressed in his mind like some topographical map.  He knew where each boulder lay, where each tree grew, the narrowest and widest section of the valley, and even the slightest dip or swerve in the terrain.  It was all memorized, and he had little doubt that he could walk down the hill and through the valley in the darkest of night without even stubbing a toe.  He and his men had spent all afternoon getting to know the area, and Faramir at last felt satisfied that everything was in place.

Beneath him, his horse let out a soft whiney and stamped its foot impatiently.  Faramir reached down and patted the creature’s soft neck, whispering soothingly.  Behind him, nearly five hundred soldiers sat atop their mounts, their heads cocked toward the mountains and their hands gripping weapons nervously.  He had warned them all to remain alert and watchful, and to keep their ears open for the first sounds of the approaching orc army.  Faramir had no worries that the orcs would sneak up on them, but he wanted his men to be ready.

The loud cry of a hunting night bird caused Faramir to glance upward.  He noted with grim satisfaction that the sky was cloudless and that the bright shine of the moon and stars would aid in the night’s task.  They would not be fighting completely blind.

A distant horn shattered the silence of the night, startling the soldiers and their mounts.  Behind him, Faramir heard more than one sword ring free of its scabbard.  He smiled grimly, then motioned to one of his captains, signaling that the soldiers should spread out and conceal themselves behind the rise and wait for his signal.  They did so quietly and quickly with the ease of practiced soldiers, and Faramir was pleased.  The first phase of Aragorn’s plan was about to begin.

He heard the distant horn again, this time answered by another, closer by.  Still, nearly an hour passed before the first sounds of the heavy tramp of many boots reached the hidden defenders.  Faramir quickly dismounted, moving forward to crouch at the very crown of the hill.  Behind him, his men shifted restlessly.

The Steward peered into the darkness at the base of the mountains, his hand gripping the hilt of his sword as the loud clamor drew closer; the distinct sound of orc voices drifting through the night.  Down in the valley, the shadows swirled and shifted as the first ranks of the vast orc army began to march toward the base of the hill.  Faramir noticed that some of the creatures carried torches, but for the most part, the army traveled in darkness.  He gave a satisfied grunt, his body tensing in anticipation.  Soon, the first ranks would reach the base of the hill directly below him, and the time for action would be upon them.

Faramir commanded a force of less than five hundred soldiers, a pitiful army when compared to the thousands of orcs marching through the valley below them.  However, the soldiers’ job was not to stand and fight against the overwhelming odds, for they would not stand a chance, but to strike quickly and move away.  They would use the element of surprise to wreak as much chaos and damage as they could before the orcs managed to recover and retaliate.  Once they had gained the orcs’ complete attention, they would slowly retreat west, using strike and retreat tactics to draw the orcs after them, straight toward the high walled canyons where Kenson and his men would be waiting.

Faramir tensed as the first orcs moved into place below him.  He rose and made his way quickly and quietly back to his horse.  Swinging into the saddle, he reached down and released the clasp holding an intricate silver horn.  Raising the horn to his lips, he paused only long enough to wrench his sword free from its scabbard, before blowing a single long and clear note; the signal for his men to charge.

*******

The orcs were taken completely by surprise as Faramir and his men suddenly appeared at the top of the hill, charging down toward them like a rushing wave of death, the thunder of their horses’ hooves echoing throughout the valley.  The startled creatures didn’t even have a chance to draw their weapons before the soldiers were upon them, crashing into their ranks and cutting into them like a single lethal blade.  Startled cries were soon replaced by anguished screams as the first ranks of orcs dissolved into wild chaos.

The orcs who had not yet entered into the valley milled about in confusion, unable to see what was happening before them and unwilling to rush blindly forward to the aid of their companions.  The loud shrieks of the orcs, along with the war cries of the men of Gondor combined to form a deafening cacophony that made it seem as though the armies of all of Middle Earth had come down upon them.  Disorganized and confused, hundreds of the foul creatures fell dead before they even knew what hit them.  The surprise had been complete.

Malek, further back in the ranks, heard the desperate calls of his orcs and guessed at what was happening.  His face contorted in rage, and he began screaming at his orc captains, ordering them to drive the confused army forward, certain that they could overwhelm any force before them.  The captains, terrified of the rage of their master, moved quickly to comply, gathering the confused orcs together and doing their best to organize a counter attack against an enemy they could not see.  

When they at last managed to regain some semblance of order- reforming their lines and readying their weapons-they charged forward into the valley directly into a scene of absolute chaos.  Dead orcs lay everywhere, and those who had not yet fallen ran around wildly, screaming for aid and searching for any escape from the deadly trap.

The fresh orc ranks charged forward wildly, enraged, yet their enemy had already gone, disappearing back into the night from which they had come, the sound of their hoof beats fading into the darkness.

“After them!” Malek screamed, his voice filled with hatred and rage.  He could not believe that his enemies had dared leave the protection of their city and brave an open attack against him.  Yet just as Aragorn had predicted, he thought it no more than the last desperate act of a defeated and hopeless army.  The fact that his prey was so near, and so obviously outnumbered spurred him into a wild frenzy.  

“I want their blood,” he howled wildly, spurring his bloodthirsty army forward without any thought to direction.  They charged on, seemingly always a step behind their fleeing enemy, howling with rage whenever the soldiers would turn and strike at them before retreating once more.

Malek was no fool, and as the minutes dragged on and the defenders remained always one step ahead, goading his army forward, he briefly considered the possibility a trap.  He thought about halting his army’s wild chase then, splitting his orcs and sending some after the troublesome raiders while the rest returned to their course for the city.  He quickly discarded the idea, however, confident that his superior numbers could withstand any trap that the desperate defenders could have lain for them, and determined to squash the men who had so foolishly dared to attack him.  

When the high walls of the canyons came into view, the first flickers of doubt entered his mind, and he slowed his pace.  Yet it was too late to stop now.  The orcs around him were in a wild frenzy, spotting their evasive prey fleeing just out of reach and believing that they would soon be able to trap them against the fast flowing waters of the River Ciril.  Nothing could stop their wild rush at that moment, and the whole force flowed into the canyon’s first winding corridors, crashing blindly ahead, following the dust trail left by the soldier’s mounts.

Malek flowed along with them, unable to suppress his rising doubts, yet still confident in the invincibility of his forces. Nothing could stand against them.

****

“They are coming, Captain!”

The call rang through the canyon, filled with excitement and anticipation.  Kenson immediately rose from his crouched position and signaled to the messenger that he had heard and understood.  Beside the captain, several of the officers also rose and began shifting around nervously.

“Go and take your places,” Kenson ordered calmly, and the soldiers immediately dispersed.  The captain glanced around him, his critical eye taking in every detail as he checked that all was in readiness.

He stood near the center of a large bowl shaped depression, surrounded on three sides by the high walls of the canyons, and on the fourth by the fast flowing Ciril.  The bowl contained only two main entrances, one to the south, where he could already make out the distant shouts of the approaching orc army, and one almost directly across from it, to the north.  The light of the moon reflected brightly off the waters of the river, lighting up the bowl with a bright glow.  Straight before him, spaced along the high walls of the canyons, Kenson could just make out the dim silhouettes of the lines of archers.  He glanced toward the southern entrance, and though he could not see them, he knew that a large force lay concealed just beyond, waiting for the orcs to pass before closing from behind and sealing them in.  

The trap was set. All that was needed was for it to be sprung.

Convinced that everything was in place, Kenson turned and raced for the north entrance, pulling his sword free of its scabbard along the way.  The tingle of anticipation that always struck him before a battle was coursing through his veins, and he felt like laughing out loud, despite the dangerous gamble they all were about to make.  

He reached the entrance and easily found the little alcove that he had chosen for himself.  The small niche in the stone appeared to be a very small corridor running from the canyon wall, but it only went back into the stone for about 15 yards before sloping upward, offering him a small perch were he could watch the corridor below him as well as have a clear view across the bowl.  He tucked himself carefully into his hiding place, watching the last few soldiers disappear from view as they found their places, and the area once more fell still; deathly still.

The minutes seemed like hours for those waiting in ambush, but at last the steady pounding of horses’ hooves drew near, and everyone tensed.  From the southern entrance, Faramir and his men burst into the bowl, urging their horses into a flat out run to outdistance the orcs who came rushing through right behind them.

Kenson watched as the horsemen reached the halfway point, and then began the final stretch toward the corridor below him.  The orcs were falling back slightly, their howls filled with rage and hatred, and when the first of their ranks had reached the center of the bowl, Faramir and his men swept into the Northern corridor.  Faramir saluted Kenson with his blood stained sword as he charged by, and Kenson smiled grimly and returned the salute though Faramir was already long gone

He turned his attention back to the bowl just as the first lines of orcs were nearing his hiding place.  They charged forward blindly, looking neither to the right, nor left, but focused on their prey fleeing before them.  Kenson let them through, his eyes focused across the bowl to the other entrance, where still more orcs continued to flow forward into the large depression.  

He was ready to spring the trap, but knew that he had to wait until all of the army had entered the bowl.  He was growing increasingly nervous and more orcs continued to flow into the passage below him, but he steadied himself and kept his eyes locked across the chasm.  

At last, the final ranks of orcs broke into the bowl, and Kenson did not hesitate.  He raised his horn to his lips and gave three sharp blasts, then turned and stumbled down the incline and toward the main passageway, yelling loudly as he ran.

The hidden defenders closed in from both sides, rushing in to fill the gap of the corridor, cutting off the flow of orcs like a cork in a bottle.  The surprised creatures skidded to a halt, confused when they saw that the way forward, which had been open just seconds before, now lay blocked by a large force of grim faced warriors.  Too late, they realized the trap.

In the back of the orc army, several of the cowardly creatures turned to run back the way they had come, only to find that this passageway had been blocked as well.  Howls of dismay now echoed from both ends of the bowl, and for the second time that night, the orc ranks broke apart as confusion reigned.  

The defenders did not give them a chance to recover from their surprise.  On a signal, the archers along the cliff face began to rain volley after volley of arrows down into their milling enemy, adding to the chaos.  The soldiers blocking the tunnel entrances did not rush forward to engage the orcs, but waited patiently for the creatures to come to them, knowing that they held the advantage against the larger force within the narrower confines of the passageway.  All they had to do was hold the orcs trapped within the bowl until sunrise; a difficult task, yet one that seemed not so impossible as the confusion within the orc ranks continued to grow.

A large force of the beasts charged forward, attempting to escape the deadly rain of arrows and use their sheer numbers to push through the trap.  Yet they were unorganized and frightened, making them easy prey for the soldiers, and they were cut down one by one.  Soon the sound of fighting filled the canyons as small forces of orcs continued to try to break free, only to die at the end of a sharp sword.  If the creatures had taken the time to organize and band together before attacking, they would have stood a better chance. Yet, luckily for the soldiers of Gondor, orc had never been known for wise battle tactics.  

Still, there was several hours left before dawn, and eventually the orcs would calm down and begin to band together.  Kenson, standing at the front of the line of defenders blocking the Northern passageway, knew that then the true fighting would begin.  Already, near the center of the bowl, Malek and his captains were beginning to organize. Behind him in the corridor, he heard the ring of metal against metal and knew that Faramir and his men were taking care of the orcs who had already come through.  The captain could only hope that the steward would be able to clear the orcs quickly and come to their aid.  So far, they had managed to land all the blows, but he was not foolish enough to believe that this would last.

The true challenge was just beginning.

********

Arwen sat quietly at the base of one of the long docks leading out into the Ciril River, watching the gentle play of moonlight on the glassy surface.  It was the first time all day that the she had gotten a chance to sit down, and her soft boots lay casually by her side as she dangled her feet in the water, allowing the cool river to help ease the weariness she felt in both mind and body.  

Aragorn, Gimli, Gandalf, and the four hobbits had left several hours earlier, and Arwen was still wrestling with the fact that she had not gone with them.   Aragorn had told her that she was needed here, yet Arwen was not so sure of the fact.  She had helped with the loading of the injured soldiers into several large boats and barges that could be pushed out into the river at the first approach of orcs, yet now she found herself merely waiting and worrying, as was usually the case when Aragorn was off on one of his daring adventures.

A soft call from behind her jerked Arwen from her thoughts, and she twisted around to see a short fat man hurrying toward her.

“What is it, Anvanar?” she called out, worried that one of the injured soldiers had taken a turn for the worse.

“My lady,” he replied, gasping for breath as he finally reached her, “You asked to be notified if the elf lord showed any sign of waking…”

“Legolas is awake?” Arwen gasped out, pulling her feet from the water and reaching for her boots.

“Nay, my lady,” he replied quickly, causing Arwen’s shoulders to slump slightly with disappointment.  “At least, he was not awake when I was sent to fetch you, but he is tossing and turning and crying out in a language none of us can understand.  We have been unable to calm him at all.”

“How long has this been going on?” Arwen asked sharply, hurriedly putting on her boots.

“Near a quarter of an hour now, my lady,” Anvanar replied, and Arwen felt a flash of irritation.

“You should have notified me at once,” she said impatiently, then shook her head and immediately apologized.  She was angrier with herself for wandering off alone when Legolas so obviously needed her.  

She hurried toward the boat where she knew she would find Legolas, quickly outdistancing Anvanar in her haste.  She slipped onto the vessel and quickly made her way toward the back, where she could see a crowd of healers trying desperately to calm Legolas.  She pushed her way swiftly through them and knelt down next to the small mat containing her elf friend, motioning for the healers to leave them.

Legolas was indeed tossing and turning, his head twisting around wildly on the pillow, a fast stream of Sindarin flowing from his lips.  She could not catch all the words, but she heard enough to know that he was talking of a shadow and darkness.  His eyes were still closed, but the lids were fluttering wildly, as if he was desperately trying to open them.   His body was arching and twisting so violently that Arwen immediately feared that he would injure himself, or reopen the newly healing scabs on his back and chest.

“Legolas,” she called out gently, reaching out to cup his pale face in one palm.  She began to talk to him calmly in Sindarin, her words slow and unhurried as she desperately tried to still the wild movements of his body.  It took several minutes, but slowly he began to calm, his muttering dying away to silence and his body lying limp once more except for an occasional wild tremor.  Arwen continued to speak to him quietly as she brushed the hair from his face, talking about anything and everything that came to her mind, one arm carefully draped across his chest to keep him still.  She glanced down at the bandages wrapping his chest to see if they showed any signs of fresh blood, and when she again moved her eyes back to his face, she found his eyes open and watching her.

“Legolas,” she said again, watching the light gray orbs for any sign of recognition.

Legolas blinked, and then appeared to be struggling to speak.  Arwen quickly reached beside her and poured him a glass of water, leaning forward and holding his head up as she put the goblet to his lips.  He gulped greedily for a few seconds before she once more took the cup away.

“Arwen,” he whispered hoarsely, his eyes locked onto her face as if trying to memorize it.

“I am here,” Arwen answered softly.  “Just lie back and relax. You are safe here.”

Legolas closed his eyes and shook his head slightly.  He opened them again a second later and looked back up at Arwen.  She was struck by how dull and lifeless his eyes appeared, the normal twinkle gone, replaced by shadow.

“Where…” he had to stop and swallow before trying again.  “Where are we?”

“We are in Calembel,” Arwen replied.  “Do you remember anything of what happened?”

Legolas nodded slowly, pain flickering across his face.  “Is….is Pippin alright?”

“Yes,” Arwen answered slowly.  “He is just fine.”

Legolas seemed relieved, and he sank back to the mat, his gray eyes flickering closed, only to snap open once more a few seconds later.  “Where are they?” he asked suddenly, his voice sounding frightened.  “Where are they?” he repeated, his eyes locked on Arwen.

Arwen knew whom he was speaking of, and she was more than a little unnerved by the desperation in his voice.  “They are gone,” she replied slowly, watching Legolas’ reaction carefully.

“Where?” Legolas asked again, his voice taking on a strange and somewhat frightening tone.

Arwen was not sure what to tell Legolas, afraid to upset him further when he was obviously so distressed.  Before she could think of anything to say, however, Legolas began struggling into a sitting position, his eyes wild.

“Malek,” he whispered simply.

Arwen nodded her head, knowing she could not deny it.  “Legolas, I think….” she began, but stopped abruptly when Legolas began struggling to rise from the mat.  “What are you doing?” she cried, reaching out to hold him down.

He shrugged free from her grasp, showing surprising strength despite his injuries.  “I must go to them,” he gasped.

Arwen was incredulous.  “You cannot even rise on your own, and you intend to go after them?” she asked disbelievingly.  “And what do you intend to do?”

“I have to help,” Legolas replied, still trying to push himself upright.

“You cannot even rise,” Arwen pointed out yet again.

“Then help me,” Legolas snapped, his voice half angry and half pleading.  “I have to help them,” he repeated, his voice a low groan, whether from worry over his friends, or from pain, Arwen did not know.

Arwen shook her head and reached out and grasped Legolas’ wrist firmly, pulling him back down to the mat.  He no longer had the strength to fight against her, and he sunk back down with a moan, his face a mask of pain.

“Legolas, listen to me,” She commanded, her voice calm and soothing.  “In your condition, you could do nothing for them even if you were to go.  You would merely get in the way.  Aragorn and the others can take care of themselves just fine without you.  You must trust in them.”

Legolas’ gaze locked on her own briefly, and Arwen expected that he was going to begin struggling against her again.  But instead, all the tension seemed to drain from his body and he relaxed back on the mat, turning his head away from her on the pillow.  Arwen could not help the sinking feeling that struck her at that moment.  While Legolas had been struggling against her, a brief spark of light had reentered his eyes, a flicker of his previous fire, but it was gone now, replaced once more by dull lifelessness.

She reached forward and gently replaced the blankets that had fallen from him when he had tried to rise, for the evening was cool.  “Rest, Legolas,” she whispered, “your friends shall be returning soon, have no fear.”

Legolas did not respond, did not even turn and look at her, and with a sigh, she rose and moved away.  She was sure that she was making the right decision, yet why did it have to be so hard.”


	27. A Light in Dark Places

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Fellowship is reuniting, but may face a new threat that is hunting them all.

Aragorn crouched down low behind a large boulder, peering up the dark slope toward the dim outline of the cave entrance and listening intently to the nighttime sounds around him.  Beside him, Gandalf also crouched silently, staff gripped tightly in one hand and sword clutched in the other.  About fifty yards further down the steep slope, Gimli and the hobbits waited soundlessly, watching the dark shadows of their friends and waiting for Aragorn to signal them forward.  All was quiet but for the distant chirping and buzzing of insects as the world lay peaceful in the dark blanket of night.

After several minutes of tense silence had passed, Aragorn at last turned and signaled to the others.  Gimli and the hobbits immediately began making their silent way up the hillside, creeping from shadow to shadow with enough stealth to make an elf proud.  They reached their companions quickly, and several more minutes passed as all seven waited breathlessly to see if their furtive movements had been spotted from above.  When there was no shout of alarm, Aragorn turned to the others.

“There are two orc guards near the entrance,” he whispered quickly, silently drawing Anduril from its sheath.

Gimli grunted softly.  “How can you tell?” he asked wryly, but still in a whisper.  “It is as black as a dragon’s heart up there.”

Aragorn merely shook his head slightly in response to Gimli’s words.  “There are more senses than just the eyes, friend dwarf,” he replied quietly.  “As a ranger, I learned to make use of all my senses in scouting out possible danger, and you may rest assured that my observations are correct. However, if there are more orcs further back in the tunnels, I do not know.”

Gimli nodded in concession, never really having doubted Aragorn.  

“So what do we do now?” Pippin asked somewhat shakily, staring up the slope with wide eyes, obviously reluctant to move any closer to the large opening that led into Malek’s lair.

Merry, standing close by his friend, laid a comforting hand on Pippin’s shoulder, while both Frodo and Sam smiled at him encouragingly.

Aragorn also spared a small smile for the brave young hobbit.  “I suggest that Gandalf and you four remain here, while Gimli and I go and clear the way before us,” he said slowly, glancing at Gandalf for the wizard’s brief nod of approval.  Gandalf had no arguments.  He knew that his play in events would come later.  Now was the time for warriors, not wizards.

Gimli grunted again, yet this time it was a different sound, for he also had no argument with Aragorn’s plan.  In fact, he was actually looking forward to it.  All the silent creeping about, flitting from shadow to shadow and carefully masking each footfall, was something better left to the light footed elves or experienced rangers.  Bashing and slashing, now that was something better suited for a dwarf’s heavy axe, and there was nothing that Gimli liked to slash and bash more than orcs.

“Let us be off, then,” Aragorn whispered.  “The orcs have most likely already fallen into the first trap, and we must move quickly if we are to be completely ready when our turn in the chain of events comes.”

Gimli nodded grimly, shifting his axe on his shoulder and nodding for Aragorn to lead the way.  The two companions slipped silently from the cover of the boulder, bending down close to the ground to mask their movements and creeping steadily forward.

The two orc guards never even knew what hit them.  The first fell with a soft thud to the ground, blood bubbling from its torn throat, and the second only had time to widen its eyes in horror before Gimli’s axe neatly sliced its head from its shoulders.  Gimli caught the orc as it was falling and carefully lowered the body to the ground, peering into the darkness of the tunnel and trying to discern if there was any movement.  He caught Aragorn’s eye and shook his head slightly.

Aragorn nodded, then silently motioned for Gimli to remain where he was before slipping into the dark corridor and moving soundlessly from view.  Gimli scowled after him, then turned and glanced back down the steep slope.  He could barely make out the dim outline of the boulder behind which his friends hid, but he knew that they would be growing more anxious with each passing moment.  He hoped that Aragorn would not be long.

Only a few minutes passed before Aragorn once more appeared, this time carrying a lighted torch.  He shook his head at Gimli’s questioning look, then used the torch to signal the others up to them. 

“I only went in a short way,” Aragorn explained when they were all together once more.  “I believe that these two may have been the only ones left behind, yet we must still be careful.”  He glanced over at Pippin.  “Can you show us the way to the main cavern?” 

Pippin nodded glumly.  He had not doubts that he would be able to lead his companions correctly, for the orcs had taken a direct route when he and Legolas had been brought there as prisoners.  Swallowing back the fear those memories brought to him, Pippin started forward, Aragorn right beside him, lighting the way with his torch.  The stillness and silence within the tunnel was almost overwhelming, sending the slightest shuffle of feet against stone echoing for what seemed like miles.  The companions moved forward uneasily, hands tightly gripping weapons and eyes darting around.

Thankfully, it did not take them long to reach the main cavern, more brightly lit with torches and seemingly less oppressive with its high ceiling and wide walls.  All of the companions breathed out a sigh of relief as they exited the cramped passageways and moved into the vast cave, their eyes roaming about as they familiarized themselves with their surroundings.

Aragorn moved to the center of the large cavern and turned in a slow circle, his sharp eyes taking in every detail of his surroundings.  Gimli moved around the walls, running his hands over the smooth stone and muttering beneath his breath.  Gandalf began to systematically explore the entrances to each of the branching tunnels, also running his hands over the stone.  The four hobbits remained near the main entrance, grouped together and watching their companions anxiously.

“What now?” Gimli finally asked, glancing toward Aragorn.  His voice echoed eerily throughout the cave, causing everyone to flinch slightly.

“Now we set our own ambush,” Aragorn replied calmly.  “If everything goes according to plan, the orcs will be trapped within the canyons soon.  Faramir and Kenson must hold them there till sunrise, for I have little doubt that seeing his army routed and dawn approaching, Malek will have no qualms about abandoning his orcs to save his own hide.  He will return here, and we must be ready for him when he does.”

“What do you want us to do?” Frodo asked.

Aragorn opened his mouth to answer, but a sudden exclamation to his right, followed by a low rumble and then a loud crash caused them all to spin, raising their weapons and tensing for an attack.  Their eyes widened as Gandalf calmly stepped back from one of the tunnels, the entrance now completely blocked by a large pile of stones.  The wizard turned, and then smiled slightly when he noticed them all staring at him.

“My apologies,” he said simply.  “I should have warned you before doing that.”

“What are you doing?” Sam asked tentively, eyeing the old wizard as if he had gone mad.

“I would think that that would be obvious, master Samwise,” Gandalf responded lightly.  “An effective trap is not one that has multiple escape routes.  I am merely cutting down Malek’s options, that is all.”

“Will you collapse them all?” Merry asked, alarm in his voice, for they would not only be blocking in Malek, but themselves as well.

“All but the main entrance and the passageway that Pippin and Legolas used to escape,” Gandalf answered.  “Have no fear, for we will still have an option if something goes wrong.”

Merry nodded, unable to contain his sigh of relief, and Gandalf smiled at him.  Pippin pointed out the tunnel that he and Legolas had used, and the old wizard continued making his rounds, collapsing the many passageways.  The others watched him for a moment before Aragorn called them to him.

“We only have a few hours to come up with the best plan,” the ex-ranger told them carefully.  “We must be completely prepared for anything.  Malek must not be allowed to escape us!”

********

Cries and screams of terror, the clash of metal on metal, and the tangy smell of blood filled the night air as chaos and confusion wreaked havoc throughout Malek’s trapped army.  The trap had been sprung perfectly; the results more devastating to the orc ranks than even Aragorn could have predicted.  Numerous attempts to break free from the canyons had all ended in disaster for the orcs, and more and more of them fell dead as the warriors of Gondor lifted their voices in a song of victory and hope.

Near the center of the bowl, Malek stood motionless as his army disintegrated into madness all around him, his calm features hiding his murderous rage and hate.  A dozen of his largest and most disciplined orcs stood around him watched him carefully, waiting for his commands and ignoring the desperate cries of their companions around them.  They knew that their only hope of escape lay with their master, and they would not abandon him.

A faint snatch of the Gondorian warrior’s song lifted above the clang of battle and drifted to where Malek stood, causing him to hiss in anger and his orc guards to flinch.

“So, you think you have won?” Malek growled into the night.  “Perhaps this battle, yet it shall only make my final defeat over you that much sweeter!”  He strode forward suddenly, making toward a section of the western canyon wall that was not as steep, his orc guards hurrying behind him.  Confused orcs scattered before him, and any not quick enough to move out of his way were cut down by his sharp talons.

As soon as he reached the canyon wall, Malek began climbing upward, his sharp claws and flexible body making the steep incline easy for him to navigate.  His orc guards had a more difficult time, and when Malek at last reached the top, they were less than a quarter of the way up the steep climb.  Malek considered leaving them, but decided against it.  Perhaps some of the orcs in the canyon below would manage to break free and escape, but they would be scattered and defenseless.  At the moment, these few loyal creatures were all that he had left, and however pitiful, Malek would take any advantage he could get.  

He waited, watching as the human archers along the opposite cliff noticed the escaping orcs and reined down a hail of arrows on them.  Many of the arrows found their marks, and ten minutes later, only eight of the original dozen orcs pulled themselves over the final rim.  One of the creatures sported an arrow in his back, and with a casual backhand, Malek slashed out the creature’s throat and sent him toppling back into the canyon.  He had no time for injured or weak servants that would only slow him down.

With one final scan of the battle going on down in the canyon, Malek whirled, and, followed by his seven faithful orcs, began making his way back toward the high peaks of the Ered Nimrais and the safety of his lair.

******

Kenson and Faramir fought side by side, their blades soaked in enemy blood and their voices lifted in song.  Both warriors carried numerous minor cuts, yet their movements had not slowed in the slightest, and neither seemed to feel their injuries.  They had just finished throwing back yet another wild group of orcs trying to push past them, and they both paused long enough to share a grin at how well the plan was going.  A shout from behind them caused them both to turn just as a soldier raced down the passageway toward them, waving his arms and shouting frantically to get their attention.

“My lords, my lords,” the man shouted repeatedly until he saw that Faramir and Kenson had broken away from the front ranks and were moving back toward him.

“Do you think he has something to tell us?”  Kenson asked wryly, gaining a chuckle from Faramir.

“Good or bad news I wonder,” Faramir responded.

“Both, I am afraid, my lords,” the messenger responded, having overheard the Steward’s last comment.

“Tell us the good news first,” Faramir bid him.  “I am in too high of spirits at the moment to have it ruined so soon.”

“I have received a message from the archers along the cliff face,” the soldier said quickly.  “They say that Malek and some of his orcs have escaped the bowl.”

Faramir nodded at the news, sharing another small smile with Kenson  “He is all yours now, Aragorn,” he whispered grimly.

“And the bad news?” Kenson asked.

“I bring word from the general blocking the southern passage,” the soldier exclaimed, glancing at both of the warriors before continuing.  “He says that a large force of orcs, less than a hundred, yet more than half that, managed to breach his defenses long enough to break free.  He has managed to close the gap, but he believed you should know.”

Kenson and Faramir both frowned, this time exchanging worried glances.

“They will cause problems,” Kenson stated softly, and Faramir only nodded before turning back to the messenger.

“Things are under control now?” he asked, letting out a relieved sigh when the soldier nodded.  “Well, nothing can be done about it now.  Perhaps the orcs will flee and never look back.”

Faramir dismissed the soldier, who bowed to them both before turning and racing back the way he had come.  Faramir and Kenson glanced at each other once more, shrugged, and then turned and made their way back to the front lines of soldiers, their smiles replaced now with worried frowns.

*******

Malek knew immediately that something was not right as he neared the entrance to his lair.  There was no sign of the two orcs who he always left as guards, and though he guessed that they might have just wandered off, he could not shake the feeling that something was terribly wrong.  He let out a long hiss and stared into the passageway, his sharp eyes searching for anything out of the ordinary.  Behind him, his seven orcs shifted nervously, having stepped into too many traps this night to be willing to charge forward into possibly yet another one.

Malek glanced upward to the heavens, toward the early pre-dawn glow on the horizon, then with a growl he plunged forward into the passageway, barely aware when his orcs reluctantly followed.  This was his lair, the nighttime his domain, and he could not be defeated!

He strode forward down the passageway and into the main cavern, fully expecting an ambush and actually looking forward to it.  It was time he wet his claws in the blood of his hated enemies.

Despite these thoughts, Malek still found himself somewhat surprised when he entered the large cavern and found Gimli and Aragorn standing calmly near the center, waiting for him.  He stopped his advance to stare at the two incredulously, his orc guards crowding in close behind him.

“Ahh, he has finally arrived,” Aragorn said coolly, stretching and letting out a loud yawn.  “I was beginning to think that you were right, friend Gimli, and that the cowardly creature would be too afraid to return here.”

Malek let out an enraged hiss, his teeth bared in a grimace of hate, but the two companions completely ignored him.

“Aye, I was wrong,” Gimli commented with a grin.  “I should have known that he is too stupid to be afraid.  Shall we kill him now?”

Malek sneered at them, his anger overcoming his surprise.  “Fools,” he grated, his eyes twin burning flames of hate.  “I would think that you would have learned by now that I cannot be defeated.  No matter.  Your stupidity will provide me with wonderful entertainment as I slowly kill you both!”  Malek stalked forward, leaving his orc guards to mill around restlessly, unsure whether they should join in the battle or not.

Aragorn and Gimli watched his approach calmly, weapons raised before them, neither face showing any hint of fear.  Malek was not daunted by their show of bravery, and only laughed in anticipation as he approached, still certain that he could not be defeated.

He was only a few feet away from the two, when Aragorn suddenly shouted, “Now Frodo!”  

Malek skidded to a halt, his eyes flying off to his side where five figures emerged from the shadows.  He only had time to let out a low growl before a sudden blinding white light filled the cavern, rushing over him and around him like a flood, causing him to shriek in anguish and throw his arms up in a feeble attempt at a shield.  He was unsure of where this light came from, only that it pained him as nothing but the sun could, robbing him of his strength and blinding him momentarily.  He stumbled back, putting his arms up before his eyes and trying desperately to regain his balance.  He blinked rapidly and tried to peer through the blinding light to find his enemies.

He saw them at last, a moment before they were upon him.

Aragorn and Gimli attacked with ferocity unmatched, and only Malek’s quick retreat saved him from being cut down immediately.  He fell backwards and rolled to the side, feeling the sting of either sword or axe, he was not certain which, bite into the flesh of his thigh.  He gained his feet quickly, his eyes at last adjusting to the sudden light, even though it still pained and weakened him.  Blood ran down his leg, and this time, the wound did not heal.

“That is for ruining my wedding,” Aragorn stated coldly, advancing once more, the black stain of blood tipping his sword.

For the first time, Malek felt a thrill of fear run through him as he realized that all his advantages had been swept away by the horrible light.  He retreated back, watching his two foes closely and ripping his own sword free from a scabbard at his side.

“Kill them,” he shrieked to his orcs, seeking their aid.

The seven creatures stood dumbly for a few seconds, also distressed by the elven light.  Two in the back turned and fled, and for a second, it seemed as if the rest would follow.  Finally, showing uncharacteristic bravery for orcs, they rushed toward the five companions standing to the side, sensing that the key to the battle rested in destroying the horrible light that blinded them.  Sam, Merry, Pippin, and Gandalf moved forward to meet them, forming a protective ring around Frodo, their faces grim and determined as they met the rush head on.

Malek saw none of this, however, for he was too busy fighting off a second flurry of attacks from Aragorn and Gimli.  Despite his weakened state, Malek was still a formable foe, his movements remaining swift and his desperation lending him strength.  Instead of merely retreating, he met this second attack head on, fighting back with all the desperation of one who is cornered and has nothing left to loose.  Aragorn and Gimli soon found themselves hard pressed to stand against him.  However, they still managed to land several minor blows, and were encouraged when the wounds did not heal themselves.

Malek ducked one thrust from Aragorn, then barely had time to twist away from Gimli’s axe.  He raked out with his claws as he darted away, howling in glee as he felt them dig into flesh.  Still, his two opponents came on, never pausing or hesitating.

Malek worked himself back toward the cavern wall, positioning himself so that Gimli and Aragorn would have to approach him directly rather than circling around to flank him.

“Did you think I would be so easy to kill?” he howled, raising his sword and suddenly lunging forward to attack.

He feinted at Aragorn, then swept to the side and slashed at Gimli instead.  The dwarf blocked the sword blow, but stumbled back slightly, off balance.  Malek attempted to press the attack, but Aragorn charged in on him, pressing him away and giving the dwarf the time he needed to steady himself.  Gimli rejoined the battle, and soon the three were joined in a dance of death, their movements smooth and swift.

Malek was unsure how long the battle had been going on, but he did realize that he could not last against the combined might of the two warriors facing him.  More and more of their blows were knocking through his defenses, and though the injuries were minor, they were also beginning to add up.  He began to search desperately for a way to escape from them.  He spotted the main entrance of the cave only a few yards to his left, and with a howl of pure hate and rage, he leaped forward, his movements furious and desperate.  

He knocked Gimli completely off his feet with the force of his charge, raking a nasty gash down the dwarf’s torso with his claws, while twisting and swiping his sword awkwardly to keep Aragorn far from him.  Unfortunately, Aragorn seemed to have anticipated the blow, dancing around it and moving forward to once more block Malek’s escape.

“Your game is ended, Malek,” Aragorn said evenly, despite the sweat and blood covering his body.

Malek howled in rage and charged forward once more, intending to knock Aragorn from his feet just as he had the dwarf.  He slashed outward with his sword, more to throw Aragorn off balance than any hope that he would connect with his target.  Aragorn met the thrust smoothly, using his own sword to sweep it out wide, then pivoted gracefully, somehow reversing the direction of his own blade and swinging it straight back in, directly into Malek’s path.

Malek tried desperately to reverse his momentum, yet it was too late.  He felt the sword enter his stomach and slide upward towards his heart.  He screamed and threw himself sideways, managing to dislodge Aragorn’s grip and stop the deadly thrust. But, by this time, Gimli had recovered from behind him, and the dwarf’s axe swept in with deadly accuracy.

Malek had time for one more ear shattering howl, before the tip of Aragorn’s sword plunged into his small heart and Gimli’s axe cut his head from his shoulders.

******

Sunrise.  At that moment, it was the most welcome sight Aragorn could possibly imagine, unless, of course, Arwen had suddenly appeared before him.  He stood directly outside of the cave entrance, his head tilted back as he breathed deeply of the early morning air, the sting of his many wounds forgotten in the simple joy of the moment.

A sharp poke to his back brought him back to reality, causing him to lower his head and glance behind him.

“If you don’t mind,” Gimli grumbled loudly, “I would greatly appreciate it if you would move aside and let the rest of us out of this dark hole!”

Aragorn smiled apologetically and moved further out, watching as his companions trailed out of the passageway and onto the narrow ledge.  Gimli, Gandalf, Merry, and Sam all sported bloody gashes in various places, and of the four, only Gandalf didn’t seem to need support **.**   The entire group looked a wreck, exhaustion finally wearing them down, and Aragorn thought that they would all need to sleep for a month straight before recovering from this.  At least they were all still alive, and for that, Aragorn was more than grateful.

“Can we go home now?” Pippin asked tiredly, his arm wrapped supportively around Merry’s shoulder.

Aragorn smiled at him and nodded slowly.

“I can not believe that it is finally over,” Frodo said slowly, his tired gaze fixed on the rising sun.

Aragorn shook his head.  “Malek may be dead, but I have a feeling this is still far from over.  We do not yet know how our companions fare within the canyons.”

“Then let us be on our way,” Gandalf suggested, absently wiping at a red stain on his white robes.

Aragorn nodded and led the way down the rocky slope, his movements slow and somewhat jerky.  He continually had to fight back a yawn, and his eyes kept attempting to drift closed.

Perhaps if he had been more alert, he would have heard the orcs approach in time. Yet, as it was, the creatures burst over the rise before them, taking the companions completely by surprise as they charged forward, howling.

Aragorn could only stand and stare in disbelief, wondering how such a thing could happen.  There were at least fifty of the creatures, and the ex-ranger knew that there was no way the exhausted companions could hope to escape from them.  They charged forward madly, covering the distance swiftly, intent upon the destruction of the seven companions standing before them.

Behind him, Aragorn heard the four hobbits let out tired moans, while Gimli released a resigned sigh, lowering his axe from his shoulder and trying to muster the strength to lift the weapon.  Aragorn himself felt only shocked disbelief, wondering how they could have all come through so much only to have it end now, in this way.  He raised his sword and attempted to focus eyes that had suddenly become bleary with tears.

“Oh, Arwen,” he whispered softly.  “If only I could see you one last time, my love.”  He shook his head at the hopelessness of the thought, then once more focused on the approaching orcs.

He blinked in surprise as the first ranks suddenly toppled forward, falling to the ground like puppets whose strings have been cut.  He closed his eyes tightly, and opened them again, wondering if his weariness was perhaps causing him to hallucinate.  His eyes flickered open just in time to see the second rank of orcs drop just as suddenly as the first, while the remainder of the creatures skidded to a confused halt.

“What…” he began, but at last his tired eyes focused enough for him to make out the shafts of arrows protruding from the backs of the fallen orcs.  He blinked again, then shook his head in amazement as the last of the creatures collapsed soundlessly to the ground.

“Look!” Pippin suddenly called out excitedly.  “Look, on the hill!”

Aragorn lifted his gaze to the high rise the orcs had just poured over and saw a line of horsemen ringing the crown of the hill, their bows in hand and arrows notched in case any of the orcs happened to remain alive.  For the second time, Aragorn’s eyes widened in disbelief as he suddenly realized that the ‘horsemen’ were in fact, elves.

His bleary eyes were having a hard time focusing, yet as the horses began moving down the hill toward them, Aragorn suddenly recognized the elf at the front.

“Elrond,” he gasped in disbelief and relief.

Sure enough, it was the elf lord riding towards them, his two twin sons beside him.  Aragorn was not sure whether to laugh or cry, yet when he caught sight of the two horses, or more particularly, their riders, coming directly behind Elrond and his sons, he could not stop the sudden flow of tears.

He heard Gimli’s shout of joy, and was tempted to let out his own shout.  He wanted to run out to meet the approaching riders, yet all he found himself able to do was watch their approach, silent tears of relief sparkling in the bright morning sunlight.


	28. Bright Horizons

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Fellowship is reuniting, but may face a new threat that is hunting them all.

“You do not look very well, Estel.”

“Ahh, and you look wonderful, my lord.” Aragorn smiled up into the concerned face of Elrond as the elf lord pulled his mount to a halt in front of him.  “Your presence is both unexpected and welcome.  _Very_ welcome.”

Elrond’s concerned face broke into a small smile, and he would have said something, but at that moment, his two sons arrived, dismounting and rushing forward to embrace Aragorn warmly.  

“Elrohir, Elladan,” Aragorn returned their embrace, then smiled at them somewhat mischievously.   “What took you so long?

Elrohir chuckled and shook his head.  “I _told_ father that we would, in all probability, be forced to rescue you.  He agreed with me.”

Aragorn’s smile grew into a full-blown grin, but he was distracted from his response by the arrival of the rest of the elves, as well as the two that had caught his attention earlier.  His grin slowly faded as he studied Arwen and Legolas, the joy he felt at seeing them warring with other strong emotions that he felt too tired to sort through at the moment.

Arwen, on a tall bay mare, returned his studied gaze with a slightly worried one of her own, as if she were not quite sure what his reaction to her presence would be.  Aragorn wasn’t yet certain himself.

Beside Arwen, Shandarell stood motionless, refraining from his usual shifting and prancing, as if he somehow sensed the weakness of his rider.  Legolas sat pale faced on his back, his eyes continually running over his companions as if to ensure himself that they were all there and safe.  His bow rested loosely in his hands, and his posture was erect and proud, yet Aragorn could still sense the shadow resting over the prince, and it troubled him more than a little.  Yet his friend was awake and here, and Aragorn could only take that as a good sign of recovery.

Gimli and the four hobbits rushed by him toward Legolas, all of them talking at once, and Aragorn could not contain a slight smile as Shandarell snorted and stamped a single foot in protest of the sudden crowd gathering around him.  Legolas looked down at his friends and attempted a smile, yet Aragorn could see that it did not reach the elf’s dull eyes.

Aragorn’s attention once more shifted back to Arwen as his love dismounted and moved toward him, her worried gaze taking in his numerous injuries.  Aragorn opened his arms wide and pulled her into a tight embrace, barely aware as Elrohir and Elladan moved a step back to give them some privacy.  He closed his eyes and pulled in a deep breath before opening them again and glancing over Arwen’s head to Elrond.

“As I said before, your presence here is a surprise,” he said to the elf lord, “yet I fear if you had not arrived when you did…”  Arwen, her arms still wrapped around him, gave a sudden squeeze to stop him from finishing the horrible thought, and Aragorn smiled.  “I do not understand,” he said simply, deciding to be direct.  “How did you come to be here?”

Elrond shook his head and smiled.  “It is quite simple really,” he stated with a glance toward his twin sons, still standing behind Aragorn and Arwen.  “When we arrived in Minas Tirith expecting a wedding, and instead found both you and Arwen gone, I knew that something must have happened.  I learned of your journey to Calembel and all that had transpired before that from one of your advisors, and decided to follow. We arrived in Calembel only a few hours ago, and Arwen told us all that has happened, and we set out immediately to find you.  It appears that we arrived just in time.”

Aragorn nodded and let out a weary sigh.  He reached out and tipped up Arwen’s chin, forcing her to look at him.  “That does not explain why you or Legolas are here,” he said simply.  

“It could not be helped,” Arwen answered firmly, meeting his eyes directly.  “Elrond did not know where Malek had his lair, and though I am sure he could have tracked you, it would have taken time that none of us had, least of all you.  Legolas alone knew where the lair was located, and he would not be left behind!  He is the one who led us here so swiftly.”

“And I suppose you came along to look after him, right?” Aragorn asked, unable to hide his slight smile.

“She would not be left behind,” Elladan put in, echoing Arwen’s own words and throwing his sister a wink when she glared at him.

Aragorn only smiled and pulled Arwen back into his firm embrace, his eyes once more going to Legolas, now surrounded by the hobbits and Gimli.  His eyes went to Elrond and he found the elf lord also watching Legolas, a slight frown marring his fair features.

“Have you had a chance to examine him?” he asked Elrond softly.

“Only what I have observed over the ride,” Elrond replied just as softly.  “I wish to see to him more closely as soon as I am able.”

“There will be time for that soon enough,” Gandalf spoke up for the first time behind them, causing Aragorn to start slightly.  He shook his head ruefully at the wide grins Elrohir and Elladan were giving him, thinking that his weariness was making him jumpy.

Elrond also gave him an amused smile before turning his full attention on the wizard.  “You do not look very well either, Mithrandir,” Elrond commented, looking the wizard up and down in a way that only a close friend of Gandalf’s would ever consider doing.  “You look weary.”

“And weary I am, my friend,” Gandalf replied, “Yet there is still much work to be done ere any of us can rest.  As we speak, our comrades fight against an army of orcs just east of here.”

Aragorn nodded.  “Gandalf is right,” he said hurriedly.  “I am most anxious to learn how Faramir and Kenson fair within the canyons.”

Elrond also nodded.  “Arwen told us of this battle as well, and Glorfindel and the other half of my escort have gone to see how they might be of aid.

“Glorfindel?” Aragorn asked, then laughed.  “I should have known he would be here as well.  Beware to the orcs within the canyons!”

“Beware indeed,” Elrond responded with a smile.  “Shall we be on our way?”

Aragorn nodded, then quickly made his way over to where Gimli and the hobbits were still crowded around Legolas, completely ignoring everything else around them as they all spoke to him at once.  Now, as well as looking pale and weary, Legolas also looked confused, and Aragorn decided to rescue him.

“Well met, Legolas,” he called out loudly, as he pushed through the group and made his way to Shandarell’s side.  The hobbits and Gimli at last fell silent, and Legolas looked relieved.  “How do you fare?”

Legolas shook his head slightly, brushing back a stray strand of golden hair.  “I shall be fine,” he said softly, his voice a bare whisper and his eyes not meeting Aragorn’s.

Aragorn gripped his knee tightly.  “It is over, Legolas,” he said softly, at last drawing the elf’s gaze down to his own.

“He is dead?” Legolas asked, a slight tremor in his voice.

“That’s what we’ve all been telling you,” Pippin said somewhat reproachfully, but a single look from Aragorn silenced him.

“That was probably the problem, master Perigrin.” he said calmly.  “You were _all_ trying to tell him _at once._ ”  He turned back to face Legolas.  “Yes, he is dead,” he said simply, watching as a wave of different emotions crossed Legolas’s face too quickly for him to discern their meaning.

“Good,” the elf finally said softly, before turning his gaze away from Aragorn’s once more.

Aragorn half expected Gimli to comment on the elf’s simple statement, but when he turned, he saw the dwarf staring up at Legolas with a strange expression, his hand absently stroking Shandarell’s neck, much to the horse’s delight and Aragorn’s surprise.  When Gimli noticed that Aragorn was watching him, he jerked his hand away and sent a glare at his friend’s amused look.

“Come,” Aragorn said loudly.  “It is time for us to go.”  He glanced back up at Legolas, frowning suddenly.

“Some of us are going on to the canyons to see what we may do to help,” he said slowly, eyeing his friend cautiously.  “Perhaps you should return to Calembel and…”

“No!”  Legolas’ voice was firm and determined, and for a brief instant, Aragorn thought he saw a spark of life return to the elf’s eyes.  “I am going with you,” he stated, his tone of voice brooking no argument.

“Very well,” Aragorn said, realizing that he would be unable to change Legolas’ mind.  “Let us be on our way then.”

Two of the elves dismounted and offered their horses to Aragorn and Gandalf before slipping up behind some of their companions.  Elrohir and Elladan took Frodo and Sam with them, while Gandalf and Aragorn took Merry and Pippin.  Gimli, of course, rode behind Legolas on Shandarell.  

The company moved swiftly, making good time as they traveled out of the mountains and to the east, toward the river and the canyons.  The sun had not even reached its midmorning position before the high walls of the canyons came into view.

“Riders approaching,” Elrohir said quietly, and though he could not yet see them, Aragorn had little doubt that they were there.

“It is Glorfindel’s party,” Elladan added a couple minutes later as they drew closer.  Aragorn could just now make out the distant outlines against the glare of the morning sun.  “Lord Faramir and another man ride with them.”

“That would be Kenson Brantz,” he told them.  “He has been of invaluable help to us these last several days.”

The two companies came together a short while later, and Aragorn rode forward with a smile to greet Glorfindel, his old-time friend and respected mentor.

“You do not look too good, my friend,” Glorfindel said with a concerned frown.

“As I have been told,” Aragorn responded with a wry smile, wondering just how awful he really looked.  He reached out to grasp Glorfindel’s arm in a firm shake, before turning his attention to where Faramir and Kenson sat on their horses a few paces away.  “How fares the battle?” he asked, already knowing the answer since both of the commanders where here, instead of back in the canyons.

“The battle is over,” Faramir responded. “And it will be a long time before the few orcs who managed to escape us will even think twice about setting foot in Gondor again!”

Aragorn smiled and nodded his head approvingly.  “You both have done well,” he said simply, gaining smiles of gratitude from both men.  “Where are the rest of your soldiers?”

“I have already sent them back to Calembel to rest,” Faramir replied.  “They fought long and hard and deserved a break.  We were just on our way to see how you were doing.”

“Our task is complete as well,” Aragorn told them, receiving only relieved nods in response.

“Then might I suggest returning to the city?” Kenson spoke up for the first time.  “I think I am going to sleep for a week to recover from all this.”

“Two weeks,” Aragorn replied wryly, swinging his horse around toward the city.  “I am going to find a nice room, with a nice bed, and am going to lock myself away for _two weeks!”_

His companions only laughed in response, but Aragorn seriously wondered if he might not actually be able to sleep for two weeks.  He shook his head and nudged his horse into a quick trot toward the city.  The only way to find out was to try!

******

Bright morning sunlight flooded the streets of Calembel, casting the city in a golden glow.  Cheerful birdsong filled the still morning air, and the last thin wisps of fog drifting in from the river dissipated under the heat of the rising sun.

A week had passed since the defeat of Malek and the destruction of his orc army within the canyons, and already the city was beginning the long process of recovery.  Boatloads of the city’s refugees had been pouring in steadily for two days, and the docks along the Ciril were constantly abuzz with the sounds of laughter and weeping. The signs of the orc siege were still evident everywhere one might look, yet the scenes no longer carried with them a sense of hopelessness and despair.  The pure determination of Calembel’s citizens pushed them on despite their great losses, and the city was well on its way to full recovery.

Despite the early hour, the streets were alive with activity.  A family’s joy rang out through the city as a mother and daughter reunited with father and son.  The same scene was being repeated throughout the city, yet unfortunately, not all reunions were filled with joy.  A mother embraced her son, tears streaming down her face for the father whom they would never see again.  An old man wailed his grief to the heavens at the news that his child would not be returning home.  All throughout Calembel, joy mixed with grief, and relief was tempered by the harsh touch of loss.

It was these sounds of grief and joy, filtered throughout the city, that carried on the breeze until they reached the small open window that led into Legolas’ room.  Yet the elf did not register the sounds.  He was not even aware of them.  He sat on the edge of his bed, his unseeing eyes staring straight ahead and his hands curled into fists on either side of him.  He had been sitting like this, frozen, for several hours; long before the sun’s first rays had lightened the lands.  Every now and then, a wild shudder would course through his slight frame, and he would draw in a deep breath and then exhale, as if trying to rid his body of some dark demon that had a hold on him.

The dream had come again.

Legolas forced himself to focus on the fact, not the details.  He could not let his mind dwell on the suffocating blackness, or the horrible sense of loss of self, like his very soul was being torn from him.  To focus on these things was to invite madness.  The dreams tried to rob him of his very identity, but Legolas would not let them.

He closed his eyes and took several steadying breaths, forcing away the last of his tremors.   “I am Legolas Greenleaf,” he whispered harshly into the stillness of the room.  “Son of Thranduil, and prince of Mirkwood.  It will take more than dreams to defeat me.”

He opened his eyes again, feeling some of his resolve returning to him.  He decided that he would need to dress and search out Elrond.  His discussions with the elf lord always left him feeling somehow more whole, as if he had gained back a small piece of himself that Malek had stolen, and the lord of Imaldris always had advice concerning his dreams.

Legolas rose gracefully from the bed and ran a not quite steady hand through the tangles in his long golden hair.  He had had a hard time waking from the dream this time, probably due to simple exhaustion, and he felt, and probably looked, a mess.  If the condition of the bed sheets were any indication, his struggle against the dream had been physical, as well as mental.  At least he hadn’t cried out this time.  The fact that Gimli was not here with him now was proof of that.  The dwarf’s room was right next to his, and it seemed that the slightest moan in his sleep would bring the dwarf running to wake him.

Legolas appreciated Gimli’s concern, even if it became somewhat smothering at times.  More than once, Gimli had stayed up through half the night talking with Legolas about anything and everything, and though he claimed it was because he was bored and could not find sleep, Legolas knew better.  Each time had come right after a dream, and Gimli’s pointless chatter had allowed him to relax enough to sleep again.  

He knew that it was Gimli’s unending support that had allowed him to make so much progress against the darkness that had come over him from Malek’s spell.  He could feel the darkness, and yet he felt helpless to fight against it.  He felt somehow fragile, as if he was glass that would shatter at the slightest touch.  It was Gimli that held him together.  His numerous talks with Elrond helped, yet it was the time spent with Gimli _not_ talking about anything of importance that truly strengthened him.  Elrond helped him learn how to fight the darkness; Gimli kept him sane throughout that fight.

Legolas shook his head and moved over to the washstand.  Pouring water into the basin from the full pitcher, he began cleaning up as best he could.  He knew Gimli would be arriving soon, wondering why he wasn’t up yet, and Legolas didn’t feel like facing his friend’s questions at the moment.

He had almost finished when a sudden glimpse of his reflection in the small mirror above the basin caught his attention.  He froze, staring at the image and attempting to stop the sudden chills running through his body.

The mirror was small, but not small enough to hide the hideous scratches that covered his chest, and it was these marks that caught his full attention now.  He grimaced, clenching his teeth as he ran a hand over the still healing wounds.  Arwen had taken the bandages off just yesterday, and this was the first time that Legolas had actually looked closely at the scratches.  Elves heal quickly, and Legolas was no exception.  Already the marks from the whipping he had taken were fading from his back, and soon there would be no evidence of the brutal beating, not even a scar.  Yet the wounds on his chest were different.   They were healing incredibly slowly, and it was already obvious that they would leave scarring.  Even Elrond had been unable to speed up their slow mend.

Legolas groaned softly, his mind returning to the awful moment when Malek had carved the little design into his flesh, whispering words so dark and evil that he had been unable to resist their black touch.  He had been overcome with a cold and darkness such as he had never known, and it was at this time that he had lost himself.  Now, it looked as if he would forever bear the mark of that moment; Malek’s mark.

Legolas tore his eyes away from the mirror, only to have them come to rest on his small knife resting next to the basin on the stand.  He stared at the blade, the hilt intricately carved with the design of leaves.  The knife had been a gift from his father, the steel dwarven crafted and impossibly sharp.  

His hand went out to slowly touch the hilt, his fingers tracing the intricate silver leaf designs.  ‘ _One cut,’_ he thought numbly.  _‘It would only take one cut to forever erase this mark from me.  Then it could be my mark, not his!’_ His hands were shaking more than a little now, and his eyes returned to the image in the mirror as he slowly raised the blade…

“What are you doing?”

The question was asked calmly, but with a firm undertone that demanded a response.  Legolas jumped, cursing himself for getting so distracted that he didn’t hear the door to his room open.  He turned to see Gimli leaning casually against the frame, his eyes slightly narrowed as he studied Legolas.

“Nothing,” Legolas said simply, dropping the knife back to its place on the stand, then turning and donning his tunic swiftly.  He kept his back to Gimli, not wanting his friend to look at him until he had managed to regain some control of his emotions.  He didn’t expect his friend to believe his answer, and he tensed in preparation of the questions he knew would be coming.  He was surprised, instead, when Gimli let the matter drop.

“Merton Fallow Candywell  III has just returned to the city,” the dwarf said instead, his voice conversational despite his narrowed eyes and continual study of Legolas.  “Aragorn is going down to the docks now to meet with him.  It should be quite a show.  Want to come?”

Legolas at last turned to face Gimli, and he could not contain a small smile of his own at the wide grin covering the dwarf’s face.  “Lead the way,” he ordered, and with a grunt, Gimli pushed away from the doorframe and led the way into the hall.

The two friends walked in companionable silence for a while before Gimli at last turned to Legolas.  “You had another dream last night.”  It was a statement, not a question.

Legolas glanced down at Gimli, then looked away and grimaced before nodding once.  He didn’t even consider denying it, knowing the dwarf would be able to see right through the lie.

Gimli did not press the subject, for which Legolas was thankful, but the dwarf walked with a new scowl that caused people to dive out of their way.  

They reached the edge of the city quickly, and just in time to see the fat mayor and his two advisors swaggering up the road that led from the docks to the city.  Aragorn and Faramir stood directly outside the gate waiting for him.  When Legolas and Gimli joined them, the ex-ranger greeted them both, studying Legolas closely before turning back to watch the three men approaching.  Legolas was used to the looks and said nothing.

Merton was beaming when he finally reached them, despite being a little red faced from the walk.  He sketched a slight bow to Aragorn, his advisors echoing his movements, then straightened and began rubbing his hands together excitedly.

“Wonderful job,” he gushed, grinning all about him.  “You have done well!  The city still stands.  Not that a small handful of orcs could stop us!”  He quickly added, chuckling as if at his own private joke.

Aragorn merely stared at him, and the fat mayor began to fidget slightly under the scrutiny.  

“I have returned now, so you may return to your own home.  Have no fear about Calembel, she is in good hands!”

“Why have you returned?”  Aragorn spoke the question softly, and Merton gave a slight start before letting out another chuckle, this one sounding somewhat nervous.

“What do you mean?” he asked.  “This is my city.  I am the mayor.”

Aragorn shook his head slightly.  “You are the mayor no longer,” he stated quietly.  “You gave up that title when you fled when your people needed you most.  A leader should be a man of honor and courage, not a cowardly liar.”

Merton’s face had gone decidedly red, and Legolas wondered for a moment if the man’s head was going to explode.  A vein throbbed in his forehead, and he looked as if he was having trouble breathing.

“How…how dare you!”  He finally spluttered, but Aragorn cut him off, his voice remaining calm and controlled.

“I am king!” 

This single statement caused all of the blood to drain from Merton’s face as quickly as it had come.

“And as king,” Aragorn continued, “I hereby strip you of the title of Mayor, along with all subsequent titles and benefits that go with that position.”

Merton started spluttering, apparently unable to speak.

“Furthermore, I hereby banish you from the city of Calembel, and warn you that if you ever return here, it will be a crime punishable by death.  Now go!  You have five minutes to be gone from my presence.”

Merton stared at Aragorn as if he thought the king had gone mad, his eyes wide, his great chins drooping with his surprise.  “You have no ri…”  He never finished the sentence.  Gimli stepped forward and slammed his fist into the fat man’s face, feeling the satisfactory crunch of the man’s nose.  Merton fell to the ground, blood splattering his face and his eyes rolling.

“The king told you to go, now go!”  Gimli growled, reaching down and hauling the dazed man back to his feet.

Merton looked as if he was going to argue, but a single threatening step forward by Gimli changed the man’s mind.  He turned and fled, waddling down the road as fast as he could go and glancing over his shoulder as if afraid Gimli might be following him.

For the second time that day, Legolas felt himself smile.  A real smile, not one that he put on for the benefit of his friends.  It was definitely a good start to the day, and he even found himself forgetting about the horrible scratches marking his chest.

“I bet that felt good, Gimli,” Faramir laughed lightly, watching the man running away.  “I was almost hoping that you would refrain so that I might get a chance.”

Gimli only grunted, and Legolas thought he saw Aragorn hide a small smile as he turned to the two remaining advisors.  The men stood nervously, obviously unsure whether to risk Aragorn’s wrath or take off after Merton.  Aragorn settled it for them.

“You are both no longer welcome here.” He stated flatly, eying them firmly and with no hint of mercy.  “Leave now, and never return.”

The two men turned and fled.

“Well, that was interesting.”  Faramir stated, watching them go.  “So, now we have a leaderless city in a time when it most needs a leader.”

“Are you suggesting that I should have let them stay?” Aragorn asked with a wicked grin, fully knowing the answer.

“Of course not,” Faramir scoffed.  “Fat lot of good they would have done.  Probably would have made things worse, not better.”

“My thoughts exactly,” Aragorn stated seriously.

“That doesn’t change the problem,” Faramir pointed out.

“No,” Aragorn agreed, “but I think I know just the person who can step into the job.”

Faramir laughed, already nodding his head.  “I agree,” he cried happily.  “Now should we go and tell him?”

“And then can we go home, Aragorn?” Gimli asked, joining the conversation.  “If I remember correctly, we were about to celebrate a wedding before all this interfered.

Aragorn laughed.  “Trust me Gimli, I am as anxious to return home as you are.  I just want to make sure everything is settled here before I go.  Just a few more days.”

Gimli grunted, then nodded.  “Well then,” he huffed, “Faramir is right.  Let’s go and tell Kenson that his wandering days as a merchant’s guard are over, and that he is suddenly the new owner of the top merchant businesses in the city.  I wonder if he will be surprised?”

 

EPILOGUE

 

To say that Aragorn offering him the position of mayor surprised Kenson would be a vast understatement.  The man was shocked!  Yet it did not take him long to accept the offer, especially with over two hundred men within the city practically begging him to take the job. So it was, two days later, that the force of Gondor left Calembel under the capable eye of Kenson and began the long journey back to Minas Tirith, after receiving a firm promise from the new mayor that he and his son would be attending the upcoming wedding.

The pace was slow and relaxed, allowing a comfortable journey for the tired and injured soldiers, and it was over a week later when they finally reached the city.  The weary soldiers were given a hero’s welcome, and the preparations for Aragorn and Arwen’s wedding  picked up directly where they had left off.  The city was abuzz with excitement, and as the days drew nearer to the big event, Minas Tirith took on a festive air, with wild decorations adorning every household.

When the wedding finally arrived, the whole city erupted into wild celebration, which lasted several days.  The ceremony had been beautiful, as everyone had known it would be, and after it was over, everyone was reluctant to return home.

It was Kenson and Dar who were the first to depart, for Kenson still had much work to do within Calembel.  Dar was a little teary eyed as he bid Pippin a fond farewell, yet his face was aglow with pride as he rode out of the city beside his father.  Elrond and his sons left shortly after.   The four hobbits were the next to leave, after staying for many months and ensuring that none of the grand food from the feast ever went to waste.  It was a sad farewell, but one tinged with the knowledge that it would not be a permanent separation.  

Legolas and Gimli remained in Minas Tirith for several more weeks after the hobbits’ departure, and Aragorn was saddened when he learned that they at last planned to leave as well.

“Where will you go?” Aragorn asked Gimli late one night.

“Back to Mirkwood,” Gimli answered immediately.  “Legolas improves everyday, but the dreams still come to him every now and then.  I think it will do him some good to return to his home.  He misses it, that is obvious.”

Aragorn nodded.  “And will you be going with him?” he asked, fully aware of Gimli’s distaste for his best friend’s home.  Aragorn could not blame the dwarf, for he knew that Gimli would not be greeted warmly within the home of Legolas’s father.  The tension between the two races was still high.

“Aye, for a ways anyway.”  Gimli responded.  “As I said, he is doing better every day, and I am not sure how much longer he will need me.  Within Mirkwood he will have the support of his family and his own kind, and I must admit that I long to return to my own home for a time.  Yet at the same time, I am loathe to leave him until I know he is completely well.”  Gimli let out a sigh and shook his head sadly.

Aragorn laid a hand on his friend’s shoulder and squeezed encouragingly.  “I am sure everything will turn out fine.”

Gimli smiled up at him in thanks, then turned and left to find Legolas.

Several hours later, as Arwen and Aragorn were walking arm and arm in the gardens, they heard a sudden splash, followed by a loud shout of protest and the unmistakable sound of laughter.  Looking at each other curiously, they hurried along the path until they rounded a sudden bend and looked upon a very strange scene.

Gimli, sitting dripping wet within the narrow basin of one of the garden’s large fountains, was glaring at a very amused Legolas, who could not seem to contain his laughter.

Aragorn and Arwen stared at the pair, unsure of what to think or say.  The sight of Gimli was quite amusing, but they were more interested in Legolas’ reaction.  It was the first time that the elf had laughed aloud since regaining consciousness on the boat in Calembel several months earlier, and the simple sound brought soaring joy and hope to both of them.

“It was an accident, friend Gimli,” Legolas gasped, still unable to stop his wild chuckles.  “An accident, I swear.”

Gimli growled something in response, but from where Aragorn and Arwen stood, they could both clearly see the smile that he was hiding from Legolas.

“An accident, eh?” He shouted, pushing himself to his soggy feet.  “I’ll show you an accident!”  And with these words, he launched himself out of the fountain and after an already fleeing Legolas.

Aragorn and Arwen stood motionless for several seconds, unsure of what they had just witnessed.  At last, Aragorn shook his head, then bent down and laid a gentle kiss on Arwen’s forehead.  “I think things are going to be just fine from here on out, love,” he whispered softly.  “Just fine.”

Arwen, head cocked and listening to Gimli’s fading roar and Legolas’ continued laughter, could only agree.

 

THE END


End file.
